Peace of Mind
by Ribhinn Maraiche
Summary: Isolde is not yet sixteen when tragedy strikes. Facing fifteen years of deadly service to an empire she hates, she must seek friendship where she can. Enter Tristan: suddenly life, never simple, takes a whole new turn...
1. I

_"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."_

**THIS NOTE AND DISCLAIMER APPLY TO EVERY CHAPTER!**

Note: Any historic or cultural references that you may find in this story, particularly of the Sarmatian people, have been carefully researched and bear as much truth as I could divine through my efforts. If, for any reason, such references are false and I did not disclaim them at the end of that chapter, feel free to inform me and provide me with the correct information, with a reference if possible. No knowledge is ever useless.

Disclaimer: Copyright of King Arthur belongs only to Touchstone and Jerry Bruckheimer. No plagiarism or copyright infringement is intended. I own all rights to Isolde except for her name, and that includes the plotline for this story. I do not own the myth of Tristan and Isolde. All unfamiliar knights and other characters belong to me, and are not to be borrowed or used in any way without my consent.**

* * *

****Peace of Mind**

_MUSE…_

_The grass rippled in waves that shimmered gold in the afternoon sunlight. Isolde stood in the middle of the rolling plains, the steppes that her clan called home. A white mare eyed her suspiciously from its place in front of her, defiantly fierce-tempered._

_Suddenly the sky darkened with heavy clouds. Lightning flashed, striking the ground between girl and horse, and Isolde was blinded. When her vision cleared, the mare had turned black, surrounded by fire. _

_Isolde cried out to the horse to jump, but the roar of thunder drowned out her voice as the gods warred. The dying, maddened beast let out a whinny, full of wrenching pain. The lightening struck again, and she lay still._

"_No!" Isolde shouted, the wind carrying her anguish to the heavens as she realized she was alone in this sudden hell._

"_Batraz!"_

Isolde Beleri sat up on her pallet, wakened by her shout. She touched her fingers to eyes wet with tears. Her body was drenched in cold sweat, she realized as she calmed her rapid breathing.

"Izzy?" her younger brother blinked sleepily at her from the pallet next to hers.

"It's alright Arshak, it was just a night terror. Go back to sleep." He put his head back down and was soon slumbering peacefully.

Isolde had no such luck and was left to ponder the dream. Could it have been a message? She'd never had a horse named Batraz. The name had history, if it referred to the great warrior who rode with the Nart brothers. It had all started out so serene, so beautiful, but it had all faded away to an ugliness too evil to comprehend.

She worried the dream until sleep claimed her, but she lay restless all night long. She would do well to find happiness in her peace, for a time would soon come when it would shatter to reveal the horror within.

* * *

_Two weeks later…_

_ISOLDE… _

I leaned down to pluck a flower from its resting place. _The first of spring_, I thought. It wasn't the loveliest time of year to be a nomad on the plains, but winter's thaws had left the ground fertile and full of potential. That potential began to show in the small green sprouts that burst forth from the earth and flourished with the nourishment that the sun and rain provided.

Gathering flowers, while enjoyable, was not a practical use of my time. I was sent to patrol, but there hadn't been a problem since the time I was only four years, when rebels attacked Roxolani clans across our territory, which spanned the area between the Dniepr and the Don. So I wandered, picking blossoms and decapitating unseen enemies with an invisible sword.

Battle was a glorious mystery to me, in a way that very little else is to a fifteen-year-old Sarmatian woman. My theories of romance and idealisms were figments of my innocence, for I was at the age where young girls become young women, and discover themselves and their place in life.

But it wasn't killing people that appeals to me. The art that is killing was something to perfect, a challenge. Frankly, bloodshed fascinated me.

I twirled a lock ofgolden hair 'round my finger, thinking. The day before, Gatalas, son of Ariantes, had stolen a kiss from me. At sixteen, he was handsome, and still retained the arrogant immortality of youth.

Dazed by his forwardness, I hadn't known whether to kiss him back or berate him for taking the liberty in the first place. Of course I declined when he offered me a place in his bed; among our people, I am still a girl until I have killed a man in battle, and must be untouched and whole until the deed has been carried out. But when he asked permission to court me, I could and did accept.

_I could be happy, sharing his bed and being his wife_, I thought. My family certainly welcomed the match when we told them that night. This was partly because his father owned several well-bred warhorses, a tribute to his skill in battle and something he passed on to his son. But it was also because he, of the few young men left in the area, was the one I chose, and my family promised that they want most for me to find happiness.

Gatalas and I were playmates since we were in swaddling, and we were close, even closer than family. I had fancied him for years; first as the shy fondness of babes, and later as a girl looks at a boy, with a future in sight. I might even say I loved him, in my way.

A wild cry pulled me out of my fantasies, and I looked back toward my village. Thick, black smoke rose from behind the hill, where we settled a month before. I barely registered what it is I saw before I took off at a sprint. My legs pumped wildly, feet slapping the ground and heart hammering at my ribcage as I ran. Behind me, petals drifted lazily to the ground, carried by the sweet spring breeze.

* * *

_No._

I saw many tracks, those of horses and of men, and their slim, deadly arrows in the ground, leading back toward the Hunnish territories. They must have come past me, through the area that I _should_ have been patrolling, while I was daydreaming about my first kiss. _Stupid fool_, I thought. I should have been alert. I shouldn't have left my post.

_Khors protect my family, and strike me down should I be unable to save them, for it is my doing that they are in danger…_

The destruction was profound. I ghosted through the wreckage of my clan, my life. There was Ariantes, Gatalas' father. And there a body was sprawled on the ground, burned to a blackened husk and hardly recognizable, but I saw Gatalas' prized knives clutched in the shriveled, bloody hands.

_Ah, Gatalas, my sweetheart, my betrothed. We would have been happy together. Now you will be happy in Sad's domain, without me._

_My fault._

There was my mother, Amage, her throat cut and gaping, her eyes wide, unseeing. My father, too, lay before me, felled by an arrow as he tried to protect my mother. My older sister, Alathea, raped and murdered. Every hut was burning, smouldering into nothingness. Even the half-wild dogs that frequented our territory lay on the ground to rot. Everything dead. Everyone slaughtered.

_My fault._

A head once full of golden hair, now red and bloody. The bastards scalped my little brother Arshak, the only otherblonde member of our clan. Gone. All gone. Because of me.

_My fault._

_My fault they died._

_I deserve their fate._

And the one thought that prevailed – _I will make them suffer for what they have done._

I repeated the mantra in my head, feeling the numbing lethargy spread throughout my body. Dazed, I knelt and picked up Arshak's little body, rocking him as though he was only asleep. As though he might wake up. Never again.

_My fault._

My gaze alighted on the beaten path leading back to the Huns. My anger formed a terrible core, shaping itself into the arrow that would pierce the hearts of those evil men. Something inside me tightened unbearably, and then exploded in a wrenching howl of absolute misery, a heartrending mixture of guilt, hatred, and passionate grief.

As the sound died away, I began to sing softly, my broken voice reciting the lullaby that my mother used to soothe me with after a night terror.

_Au! Au! Zhihar da, Kav da!_

_Zhiv da, v noza. Mi ta, mi nogam._

_Kala ndi. Indi! Yaku tash, ma Bi tash._

_O Kuto! Mi, mi nu, Van! Zidi ma!_

The song spoke of mermaids, but my heart was too heavy for such fantasies. I lapsed into silence, unaware of anything but my own silent pain, and the burning need for revenge that grew within me.

I don't know how long I sat, unmoving, with my grief wrapped snugly 'round my shoulders like a cloak, my brother's blood soaking into my tunic. But I know it was dark when the dizzy roaring in my head became too much, and I slumped to the ground.

I lay there for two full days, hoping, praying to die. I called out to my gods to take their vengeance on me, to strike me down for my treason. The misery crept into my bones as I realized that they sought retribution in a different fashion, a much more horrible way.

They let me live.

* * *

When the fires had burned out, I took up a knife and gathered my hair in one hand, cutting it with a single stroke of the blade. My mourning was now clear to all who would look upon me henceforth.

For three days I moved mechanically, salvaging the usable items from the wreckage of the village, living off of the tough jerky used on long hunts, and precious little there was of that. Only two of the huts yet stood, and I used them for shelter from the chilly winds that swept the decimated camp at night.

I armed myself with my sword, given me by my father, and the knives Gatalas was once so proud of. I took my bow and two-handed _kontos_, carved to match. They were made for me by my uncle for my fifteenth birthday. Not once did I cry – I was simply unable to, even if I tried. I was almost used to the emptiness inside. The numbness protected me, at least.

The sound of hooves pounding the ground reached my ears. My surprise was faint, as all of my emotions were in that dark time. The raiders had returned, though I didn't expect them to, and I wouldn't let them take me without a fight.

"Spread out. See if there are any survivors." A Roman? A traitor. A so-called ally in league with the enemy.

Footsteps sounded on the other side of the half-destroyed hut where I crouched. I gripped the knife tightly in my hand, fingering the dragon engraved in the hilt. He reached out to pull aside the flap of the tent. Growling like a rabid animal, I launched myself at the desecrator of my clan, bowling him over.

I recovered my balance rapidly and drove my knife down toward his throat. Shouts of alarm dimly penetrated my unleashed rage, but I paid them no mind. He grabbed my wrist and fought to keep the deadly point from his neck.

_All death is certain…_ the maxim came unbidden to the surface of my thoughts. _So close…_ I could almost smell his death; see the blood spurting from the severed artery.

"I'm – trying to – help." He managed in my own tongue, and my eyes widened.

"Traitor!" I shrieked, slamming his head against the ground.

Pain exploded in my temple. I reeled back, dropping the knife. The world was suddenly hazy, and a blurry face came into view. The mouth moved, but the ringing in my ears was too loud. Darkness overcame me, and I was still.

* * *

I woke to find the sway of a horse beneath me.

_Raiders._

_Clan dead._

_Grief. Unbelievable pain._

I became aware of two things at once – the arms around my waist that held me upright in the saddle, and the nearly unbearable throbbing in my head.

The gait of the horse jolted my head, and I tensed and groaned aloud, despite my best efforts to keep quiet.

"Sir! Captain, she's awake!" The person holding me shouted, and I cringed. A man should be shot for making such a racket.

The motion stopped, and I felt myself being lifted down and laid on the grass. A gentle hand smoothed my hair away from my face. Several faces peered down at me in concern.

"Who are you, girl?" One man demanded, and I could see that he was Roman by the insignia on his chest and what I always liked to refer to as the "please shoot me" uniform, complete with the conspicuous scarlet plume on the helmet resting on his hip. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"Get some water," he commanded one of his men. A moment later cool liquid spilled over my parched lips, and I gulped at it greedily. When the water skin was pulled away, I protested weakly.

"That's enough for now," he said. "I am Captain Marcus Tullius of Rome. What is your name? How did you come to be in that place?" he asked.

"I am Isolde, daughter of Beler. That place was my village." I said in Sarmatian, while one of the men translated it into Latin for his Roman superior. While I knew the language passably well, I was much more comfortable in my native Sarmatian.

The Roman looked somewhat taken aback. I frowned. Why was it so hard for him to believe that I had survived?

"What happened to your people?"

"Raiders," I said shortly. The blackness of grief was too great and far too near to say more.

"How did you escape? Were there any other survivors? I saw none."

I resigned myself to the impending interrogation. "I was on patrol. When I returned, everyone was dead, the village burning. I left the bodies and took what I could use. I couldn't save them." My voice was flat and stony, detached, but despite my control, it wavered. _Numb_, I remembered. _I have to stay numb_. I compacted my grief, my guilt and anger, tucking it into a terrible knot in my chest.

"Where did these raiders go? Is there any danger?" He asked.

"Not to you. But they'd best watch their _own_ backs." The dark-haired one next to me raised an eyebrow, and I could feel the strange glint that came into my eyes, a bloodthirsty look, and my blood ran cold for a moment. "They went northeast, into the hills. Hun territory."

"They were Huns?" His surprise was evident. "Why would Huns attack a Sarmatian tribe?"

I suddenly realized that with the exception of three or four grown Romans, the rest of the riders were Sarmatian boys. Recruits, no doubt, for the Roman army. Most looked to be between 10 and 16 years of age.

"Who else would attack us? Romans?" I sneered, and I swear I saw him flinch. "Of course not - they're too busy taking young boys from their people to consider terrorizing the lowly Roxolani."

His face darkened slightly. "Watch your tongue, girl," he warned. "Lancelot, she'll continue to ride with you. We ride out, and tonight we will discuss what to do with her." Marcus commanded. The company mounted up.

"Sir!" I said sharply in Latin. "Let me go, let me take my revenge on the raiders and restore my honor, and that of my family and my clan." I lifted my chin.

The Roman turned and said dismissively, "Nonsense. What could a single girl do against armed raiders? You'd only get yourself killed."

_And what if I want that to be the way of it, you cocky bastard?_ I wanted to say.

As the boy called Lancelot lifted me into the saddle and climbed up after me, I cried out in despair. "You must let me go!"

He mounted his horse, paying me no mind. Lancelot gathered the reins in front of me, and was that sympathy etched on several faces? I thought it was, and I turned my own away. I did not want their pity.

"Move out!"

* * *

We rode until nightfall. In the shadow of the hills we camped, lighting fires to ward off the chill that still lingered in the air. Our fare was simple and plain, as soldier's rations are wont to be, coarse bread and jerked meat.

When they offered me food, my first instinct was to refuse. Lancelot persisted until the need for nourishment overrode my grief. I found that I was both ravenous and terribly thirsty, after going five days with what could hardly pass as food or drink.

I was given two full servings when they saw how hungry I was. I didn't know or care who gave up their dinner to see me fed, but instead turned all of my attention to my food to keep my mind off other cares that were sure to drive me mad with guilt and anger.

I realized that I am all but under guard here, for one of them was with me at all times, and I was kept away from the Romans. When I asked about my weapons, the boys skillfully evaded the question. The Romans obviously didn't trust me, and well they shouldn't. Besides, no doubt they all thought me insane after I attacked one of their own without provocation or explanation.

I was sitting by a fire with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, staring wordlessly into the orange flames and feeling very much alone when Captain Tullius approached me.

He greeted me but received no response. I tried to ignore him, but he continued to prompt me.

"You can use a sword, girl?" He asked. I nodded without taking my eyes from the fire. "A bow?" Knives?" I nodded twice more.

"You had a spear with you. Can you use that as well?" I threw a questioning gaze his way. He mimed throwing. My current guard, a boy no more than 12 years old, offered, "A _kontos_, sir?"

Again I nodded my assent, and he pounded the dirt with a fist in frustration.

"By God, wench, I know you aren't a mute! Why won't you speak?"

I glared at him coldly until he looked away. Then I spoke in Sarmatian. The poor boy was left to translate, but sputtered and looked at me incredulously. "You want me to say _that?_"

I jerked my head toward the officer and repeated my words for him.

"Is it not utterly obvious to you?" I said. "You seek to deprive me of any chance of regaining my honor. My family would be churning in their graves at this injustice – had they any graves in the first place." My tone turned mocking. "Does the _great_ Roman Empire allow murderers to roam free?"

His face had turned a rather extraordinary shade of puce, but I continued, acting thoughtful as I released my fury through sarcasm, the only way my distant manner would allow. "Or is it just that you, sir, are an amazingly pompous Roman ass who trembles in his boots at the mere thought of these rogue Huns?"

By this time, several of the boys had gathered around us. A sturdy boy with curly brown hair who I'd not yet met stifled a guffaw by staging a coughing fit.

The commander's cheeks burned with embarrassment at the insult in front of his charges, and he roared and backhanded me. My cheek stung from the force of the blow as I picked myself up off the ground, livid and daring him to strike me again. When he raised his fist to repeat the action, Lancelot, who seemed to be the leader of the Sarmatian band, gripped his wrist.

"Control yourself. _Captain_." He said, his tone frosty. The other boys had shifted imperceptibly to form a protective circle around the three of us.

The man took a step back from the steel in his voice.

"Bitch," he spat out, glowering at me. "I _was_ regretting our decision, but you deserve your fate." Before he turned to walk away, he looked back at me. The malice in his eyes made me shudder involuntarily.

"Your clan shall pay their dues. Consider yourself conscripted. Welcome to the Roman cavalry, to be posted in Britain – hell itself, some say. May you rot in it."

* * *

"Bastards! Damned, fucking bastards!" An older boy ranted. "They've all but dominated our territories and destroyed our men, now they'll take our women as well!"

The Sarmatians had gathered to discuss this new development. I was still in a state of shock. I knew what I was in store for. Fifteen years of servitude, doing Rome's dirty work. My father had served, and he saw horrors that he could never share with me, even when I begged him until he lifted me onto his lap, him being a giant of a man and I a slip of a girl, and told me a story, and I could never tell if they were true or false but I loved them nonetheless…

_No._

I stood suddenly. My head was swirling with memories, and right then, memories were the last thing I needed. The guilt stabbed at the place my heart should have been, over and over and over again.

The others looked at me as I walked swiftly away. A hand caught my wrist, and I looked back at Lancelot.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm not going anywhere. Where would I go? I'm _conscripted_ now." I laughed bitterly, but to my horror it caught and mangled in my throat, emerging as a sob. I turned on my heel and left them, fading into the darkness.

I stopped on the other side of the rise. Sobs racked my body, but no tears came. My stomach rebelled and emptied its contents onto the ground. I felt myself shaking in reaction and I just knew they could all hear me in my disgrace and my moment of weakness.

I felt a presence then, and jerked up, prepared to flee. It was the boy I'd seen lurking around the edges of the group, whom I had labeled the loner, perhaps a year older than me, silhouetted against the starry sky.

I wiped my mouth. "Come to laugh at me, then? The poor orphan girl, whose tragedies were brought upon her by her own foolish doings."

The nausea came again, and when it passed I found the boy standing next to me and tentatively rubbing my back, in an effort to comfort me, I supposed. Just as my mother did when I got into her healing herbs that day so long ago…

I recoiled from him, curling up on the ground and hugging my knees miserably, the sharp scent of vomit lingering in my nose. I felt as though my head might explode with the memories, the terrible gaping hole in my chest, the _guilt_.

"It was me, you know." The words escaped before I realized what I was saying. The boy said nothing, simply waiting for me to get it out. "It was my fault they died."

"I was on patrol. That much is true. Supposed to be, anyway. I left my patrol to daydream. They slipped past me. It wasn't even dark out. I was picking flowers. _Picking flowers_ while my family, my clan, everything I knew and loved was destroyed! They had barely left when I got there." A lump settled in my throat and I choked out the last few sentences of my pitiful story. "I'm a horrible person. It was my fault they died. I will _never_ excuse my actions on that day. _Never_."

He hesitated, and then spoke. "You don't have to excuse them, only forgive. It will come in time."

I stared blankly ahead. "You don't understand. You _can't_. I will never forget what I have done. I will _never_ forgive."

* * *

I blinked blearily in the early morning light. Khors, god of the sun, had not yet shown his face. I hardly remembered falling asleep, much less getting back to my borrowed pallet, and I had the sneaking suspicion that I was carried by someone – certainly not Tristan, as he was hardly the type for gallantry.

When I sat up, I found a small mountain of red by my hand. I picked up the first scarlet garment and swallowed hard. There was a tunic, trousers, a red belt… even a strip of worked hide for my hair. My new comrades had given me a way to express my grief, in the color that signifies Sarmatian mourning.

I carefully dressed after making sure no one else was awake (omitting the four sentries, who were facing out toward the surrounding plains and thus posed little threat). I was touched by the gesture they had made by gathering these offerings. Obviously Tristan had stood by his word and kept my secret close, as he promised.

My weapons had been returned to me as well, so I strapped my belt on over the clothing, tucking Gatalas' knives into it, along with my own deadly _akinakes_, a dagger with a wicked blade. It was a gift from my elder brother before the Romans took him. By now I was almost certain of his death, although we'd had no word.

I slung my sword over my back, the leather strap cutting diagonally across my chest for easy access over my right shoulder. The quiver of arrows I also settled on my back, but over the sheath so as not to mar the fletching.

After that I tore my ragged skirt, now quite bloody and useless, into long strips and reached up under the red shirt to bind my breasts, which I had found made fighting and practicing much easier.

When this was done, I went to the line of horses, noting which belonged to Sarmatians by the presence or absence of stirrups and full saddles, as our people were credited with their invention and were more or less the only ones who used them.

When I came to the six or seven that lacked the Sarmatian features, I passed over the leader's stallion but took my pick of the geldings, who wouldn't go haring after the first mare they smelled on the wind. I noticed that the Sarmatian horses were all mares or geldings as well. _Why should I care that my new friend once belonged to a Roman, _I figured. _I belong to the Romans now, too_.

At least my gelding was one of the finest horse in the string. I tied my bow to the saddle beside the oiled packet that held my bowstring, and led him over to my few possessions. The pallet was rolled and bound securely behind the saddle.

The others began to stir as I sliced the pad of my thumb, hissing at the sharp pain. The blood that welled up was streaked across my face, from my nose, down my upper lip to my chin. Two large circles covered the hollows of my cheeks. Then I cut the other thumb and dragged it over my eyelids and just below my eyes before wrapping the injured digits tightly with more cloth.

Finally, I picked up my long _kontos_, now adorned with a red flag. I swung a leg over the back of my new horse, whom I had decided to call Simargl after our god of war and vengeance – a fitting name I should think. I took him to the top of the rise and faced the rising sun. Whatever came, I was ready.

* * *

_MUSE…_

Lancelot woke to sun spilling over his face. The sounds of others waking told him it was time to get up. Groaning, he rolled off his pallet, automatically tucking it into a ball and tying it there. He looked over to where the girl Isolde had slept, but no sign of her remained.

He stood, kicking the boy next to him, Saros. The Alanian rolled over, grumbling. Lancelot kicked him again, and he sat up and glared at the older boy.

"What is it?" he snapped, not being much of a morning person.

"Where's the girl? Isolde. She's gone." Saros stood up quickly, putting his notoriously sharp eyesight to scan the low hills around them.

"_There._" He sounded awed. Lancelot looked, and saw her, a scarlet vision against the pink skies. She looked like the warrior queen that was her namesake.

"Khors," he whispered. "Just look at her."

"That's the mortal Tabiti right there." Saros said, making a sign to pacify the jealous goddess.

"Yes, it is, Saros. It is."

* * *

_ISOLDE…_

It was another hour before they were ready to move on. I sat atop the hill throughout this time, looking out over the steppes. I was darkly amused by the shock and disgust Marcus displayed when he saw my bloody face, and I savagely bared my teeth in a feral grin to see him flinch.

We rode until we came upon a village just before nightfall on the tenth day. Unlike the last, this one was whole and alive, a sight that made my breath hitch. The blood had mostly dried and flaked off, leaving only faint smears across my cheekbones, but my state of mourning was obvious to all, and the Sarmatians lined the path in respect for the dead as I rode through. There was a murmur of unrest when they realized that I was, in fact, a girl, but the clan's people held themselves in reserve, for their visitors had come to take one of their own.

* * *

The Romans decided to stay with the tribe for two days to resupply before taking another recruit. We dismounted, our legs stiff and sore from riding for so long. The clan children watched us, wide-eyed, as we settled down to rest. They must have left us to go to sleep, but when we awoke the next morning, they still sat and stared at us. I began to feel as though we were a pack of mangy dogs that were on display for the people to pity.

One, apparently the boldest of the little band, asked me, "Are you _gyàsz_?"

I nodded and answered shortly, "Yes. I mourn my tribe," and I said no more.

My limbs were sore and exhausted yet, but after a breakfast of stew and goat cheese – good, homemade food, such as I hadn't had since that day – we gathered away from the village to spar. I wasn't entirely out of practice, for which I was grateful. I'd feared that my skills would soon rust, like iron left out in the rain.

I started off with some simple stretches and one of the pattern dances that were my signature. One of my favorites was one my father taught me, one he'd learned from the Britons and observing the native woads when he was a knight, with two blades crossed to make a small, four-squared area.

Today I used my sword and kontos because I had only one of the former, and the latter would allow me more freedom of movement, since I wasn't as limber as I could've been. I resolved to practice my dances more regularly. But for now…

I slowly began to tap out the steps, twirling slowly while my knives flashed in each hand. As I completed the third circle around the blades – keeping my feet within the boundaries set for them – I began to speed the dance up, faster and faster, loosening my stiff muscles and swinging my leg up high as if to catch someone across the face, then sweeping down low to knock their feet from under them.

My arms I used to block imaginary attacks. My leather armor had a useful feature that most didn't, curved plates of metal to use almost like a shield for deflecting blows from a smaller weapon.

I slashed downwards as I ducked under an oncoming blade, recovering to jump up and twist around in a strange fashion, landing and almost immediately throwing myself forward into a tight somersault.

That was the signal to slow it down gradually, and I did, following the same steps until I paused in the same position as I started, unbending my torso slowly and raising my arms as I did so, knives crossed over my head and my feet in opposing angles of the square. My chest rose and fell with each heaving breath. _Definitely needs some work_, I thought. _In the old days I would hardly be winded when I finished that one._

"That was awfully nice," said a voice behind me. I turned to find the boy named Balambar, a large, cheerful fellow who told me when we met to call him Balai. I thanked him, rather unsure of what he wanted.

"The other boys are facing off. You looked like you were concentrating and I didn't want to disrupt you. Did I mention that that was a pretty little trick?" _It's not only pretty, my lad, it's deadly,_ I thought. "Anyway, they've already started. Would you like to hack at each other for a bit? Maybe cut off an arm or two? Or perhaps just a toe, as those aren't as useful as arms and the Romans do hate to get damaged goods."

I laughed, charmed despite myself by his easy and light-hearted manner.

I paired off with him next to Lancelot and his partner, a wiry boy whose name I'd forgotten. We dipped our blades out of courtesy, and I held still, finding my center, grounding myself. Then he attacked, slashing across. I knocked his blade upwards, feinting with my _akinakes_. I followed with a series of feints and jabs.

When I realized he was holding back, I increased my speed, nearly decapitating him in my anger, for I took the assumption that I was the weaker very personally. He finally decided to stop worrying about hurting a girl and start fighting after I dumped him on his arse and laughed at him.

Because of my slight frame, I found it easier to dodge many of his powerful attacks rather than parry them. His build gave him an advantage if I let him get close – should our hilts lock, he would almost certainly win, unless I could break away before he bore me to the ground. Thus, I danced out of his way more than I actually fight.

At the beginning, we had decided to call it an open match, meaning we could use any weapons at our disposal. With that in mind, I jammed my _akinakes_ into my belt, snagged a knife, and flicked my wrist to bury it in the ground at his feet, pinning his loose trousers and tripping him up.

He stumbled, but somehow managed to block my butterfly sweep. A slice to my right flank almost went unnoticed when he distracted me with a low cut at knee height, which, combined, sent me scurrying backward. I tripped over a stone and fell, slapping the ground to absorb the impact as I'd been taught. Balai stood back, pointing his sword at my neck.

"Yield?" He asked me.

I rolled and grasped my _kontos_, coming to my knees and jabbing at him with the sharp end. He jumped back in surprise, shaking sweat-darkened hair out of his eyes.

"Never!" I grinned fiendishly.

Slipping the _akinakes _out of my belt, I retrieved my sword and we both lunged, striking hard as our momentum carried us past each other.

We circled each other, watching for weaknesses. This was one of the most strenuous workouts I'd ever had, for he was very strong and had the youthful energy that my father lacked when we sparred. My breath came quickly now, and I panted from the exertion.

Suddenly he attacked me, and for a moment I was blinded.

Damn! He'd maneuvered me into the sun, a factor I had forgotten about – fool – and so I fell directly into his trap. He swept my feet out from under me, bending down to touch his sword and his long dagger to each side of my neck in a scissor-like fashion. This time he was careful not to allow me any leniency.

"Let's try that again," he said, smiling. "Yield?"

I sighed. I was more tired than I would've liked to be after a duel as short as this one, too tired to last against him for much longer. The battle was all but lost – I had to concede – but I could hardly let him win without having the final say. "Alright," I said, waiting until he'd relaxed before swiftly pulling his feet out from under him. The blades sliced the skin below my ears lightly, stinging fiercely but missing anything vital, of course.

"I yield."

We lay there, exhausted, until I rolled over and pushed myself to my feet.

_Papa would have been proud of that fight_, I thought. My face turned to stone as I realized that I'd been smiling. One practice fight and the world had been set to rights? No, it wasn't time for peace yet.

For the first time I became conscious of our audience. The other boys ringed us, having already finished, and beyond them stood several children and even a handful of adults.

They applauded lightly, and then swarmed around us to offer suggestions. I was reminded to always keep an eye on both of my opponent's hands, and to never forget about the outside influences at least a dozen times apiece.

A figure caught my eye, distant on the ridge. It moved, raising an arm as if in greeting, and I raised mine in return. My action drew the attention of the tribe and they went quiet and ushered us back toward the huts, glancing uneasily behind.

* * *

That evening, I was offered a place in the _kibitka_ of an unmarried woman who had put forth her hospitality. I nearly refused, but many of the others were given the same offer from various families, and so I accepted.

Her _kibitka_ was small, but felt quite lived in. A small pallet lay in the corner, and a chest sat at its foot. The woman, whose name I learned was Yasynya, put out furs for a pallet in the opposite corner.

She handed me a cloth and a bowl of water to wash with, and I gladly took it, setting it on the ground beside me. The itch of the dried blood that still lingered faintly on my chest, where Arshak had lain that day, made me suddenly feel horribly unclean. I turned away and stripped to the waist, all modesty forgotten in my haste to cleanse myself.

I dabbed at the cuts on either side of my throat, where Balai's weapons had sliced the flesh, and scrubbed my body with the cloth until my skin was fresh and pink, but still I felt Arshak's blood clinging to me. I stood helplessly by the bowl, holding the cloth and pushing back the guilt. It was only when she came and gently took it out of my hand that I realized the sense of revulsion I felt was only a memory.

She silently offered me a blanket to wrap myself in. I did so, and she guided me to the pallet, where I sat.

I watched as my hostess squatted by the fire just outside the entrance, cooking something in a heavy iron pot. Soon my curiosity got the better of me, and I had to ask.

"Where is your family?"

She answered quietly, for I'd learned she was a quiet woman. "Dead and gone," she said, and then elaborated. "My father and brother were knights. They were killed in Gaul. My husband died a year past in a hunting accident, and a man from another tribe recently came and took my widowed mother to wife."

"I'm sorry," I said, but petulantly thought that I wasn't sorry at all; I'd seen far worse horrors in the past weeks at only half her age... but then I hated myself for the thought, for grief, however fierce, is never easy to live with. I was selfish once before, but I would never be so again.

Yasynya must have sensed my initial insincerity, for her voice was a few degrees cooler – or perhaps it was the pain I'd inadvertently brought up.

"And you? How did a girl-child come to be taken as a knight, wearing the color of mourning?"

I wanted to turn away, but it was my own fault for asking in the first place, so I told her the same tale I'd told the Romans, wishing to keep my dishonor secret. Yet when I had finished, she said,

"I wish you could trust me enough to tell me the whole tale, but one such as you, who has bound herself with an oath of vengeance, must have a reason to keep it from me. I would tell you to go to Shpadana, who sees much that others are blind to. She may be able to help you make the decision you must make."

I left Yasynya's _kibitka_ to find this Shpadana, puzzled by Yasynya's insight. Lancelot jogged up and turned me around with a hand on my shoulder.

"Do you always play games when you fight?" he asked.

"What are you about, Lance?" I snapped in annoyance, rather out of patience for the day.

"That was a dangerous trick you played today. When you yield, you're expected to concede. Khors, for a moment I thought he'd killed you when I saw those cuts. How are they, by the way?" His tone was one of concern, and I relented.

"Fine." He reached out to pull the cloth away from the injuries. I winced when he touched the scratches gently. Then his fingers trailed down my neck and settled on my shoulder.

I suddenly came to my senses and jerked away, blushing hotly as I hid my face in the gloom of twilight. I mumbled some excuse and hurried away, leaving him standing in the shadow of the _kibitkas_ with a bemused expression upon his face.

Following Yasynya's directions, I found Shpadana's dwelling and tapped lightly on the hide curtain that covered the entry.

"Come." I ducked under the flap and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light inside.

A aged woman sat cross-legged, with her back to me.

"Sit, Isolde, daughter of Beler," she said, using the old tongue, the dialect of our Scythian ancestors, which few used anymore. "You are expected."

I sat, dumbfounded. "By what means did you learn my name?" I asked.

She turned to look at me, and I saw that her eyes were a milky white – she was blind. _So much for seeing what others are blind to_, I thought. The crinkling of the crow's-feet at her eyes was the only sign of her amusement.

"I could tell you I foresaw your visit, but that would be an untruth. News of your identity, at least, has spread through the tribe like wildfire. It is no secret. No more is your skill with weapons, an art that dwindles among females as our people grow ever weaker." She sighed regretfully, looking at wizened hands that had once been strong and nimble, wielding a sword to defend her tribe.

"Oh." I said in my usual eloquent manner.

"You are known to me. The tale of how you came to be here, however, is not," she hinted, and I was neither dense enough nor rude enough to withhold the information she sought. I knew I could trust this woman, for silence was her blessing and her curse, and she wouldn't betray my dishonor.

"I killed my tribe. Rather, I was the cause of their deaths. Two weeks ago, I was patrolling, but I knew there hadn't been a single problem for nearly ten years, so I neglected my duties." I swallowed; her face has become grave. To neglect one's duties to their tribe was a terrible thing among our people – indeed, among all peoples, but as nomads the scout had quite an important responsibility. To fail it was a serious perfidy.

"I heard a shout from our camp – by the time I reached it, they were all gone, felled by Huns. My family was slaughtered, even our animals, those that were not stolen. The Romans came three days later. I fought them, thinking them to be the raiders returning; I fear I was not in my right mind. When I awoke, I offended their captain, and he cursed me and told me I was condemned to be a knight."

"That is my tale, for what it's worth. The only way I can see to restore the honor of my clan is to desert, track down those who murdered my family and kill them, one by one, until their loved ones are decimated as mine have been." I declared fiercely. And then with less fervor, I said "Only then will I be able to regain my honor in death."

She was quiet for a long time. I fidgeted with the fringe on the blanket, looking down and aside.

"I do not know what to tell you, young Isolde. I can see two options, where you see only one, though you will not like the second. You can desert, tell the king of your dishonor and ask our priests how you might find atonement, performing whatever deeds they deem necessary. Or you can keep your story a secret, pursuing your vengeance across time and distance, hiding it from your people and your new brothers, and taking your own life when you believe your task is complete."

"Either one has its disadvantages, just as it has its advantages. Should you tell the truth, the Romans shall pursue you, the Sarmatians shall shun you. You will be guided to success if only to put your family to rest, but you stand a good chance of failing in your mission, for you are young yet and have much to learn of war.

"However, should you decide to hide the truth, you will serve. You might die before you have exacted your revenge, but that is a risk you take either way. Your brothers, should they find out, may scorn you, or you may find a kinship with them. Your path to redemption will not be swift, and you will never see your home again, but one way or another, you will settle your accounts."

"It is your choice to make. All I can do is provide you with the means to make that choice, and give you my blessings."

I knew she was right. I was strongly tempted to confess, to accept my exile. I wondered if it was worth giving up what little I had left to retreat to Britain, to go to such lengths to keep it all a secret.

I felt a strong pull to stay with my people, despite the animosity they would undoubtedly hold toward me for not pursuing the murderers to their graves on my own, as the _gyàsz_ were supposed to do.

But also, I realized, there was a flicker of fear inside me. I was frightened of dying, for all my risk-taking and brave resolutions over the last few days. I was still young and had yet to sample the many charms of this world, and I was afraid of leaving it so soon, small and alone as I was.

But then I squared my shoulders. Had I not declared to myself that I'd be the epitome of selflessness until my death? I did an about face and looked at my options again. _She is right_, I repeated to myself. _And I was wrong._

There was only one choice, and it wasn't the one I thought it was. I would stay with the knights, to learn, to train, and to return when I was granted the freedom to do so. I would hope beyond hope that I survived to release my family, for if I deserted now, I know I'd be relentlessly hunted down and executed, robbed of my one chance to avenge the deaths I caused by my costly mistake.

One way or another, I would see them all again.

After all, in the end, were we not already doomed?

* * *

**This is not a disclaimer**.… Well, not exactly. Those go before the chapter. I would just like to remind you, all historical references are as correct as I can make them. Because all records of Sarmatians are both patchwork and foreign, being mostly Greek or Roman (Sarmatians did not have an alphabet), it is quite a trial to put it all together. In many cases, I have condensed the timeline. Thus, history may be slightly skewed, but I have been true to it as much as I could understand it. The language references are also either entirely Sarmatian or relatives of Sarmatian (i.e. Iranian/Hungarian/Scythian), unless otherwise noted. Like the disclaimer and note at the top of this chapter, this also applies to all chapters.

**Somewhat more of a disclaimer**: The reference to red being the color of Sarmatian mourning is _not_ a proven fact; it is purely fabricated, and I don't know that anyone has researched this aspect to any extent. Also, I am not a horsewoman, so all that I know about them comes from books and the internet. If there's a problem with my terminology, please, enlighten me.

I look forward to your comments!

Ribhinn

Review.


	2. II

_"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."__

* * *

_

**Peace of Mind **

_ISOLDE… _

It wasn't until late the following morning that I remembered the figure on the hill, and I asked Yasynya about it.

My hostess made the sign to ward off evil. I did the same, wondering what it is that made the tribe so afraid of this person.

"She is bad luck," Yasynya said, "a demon. She brought the plague to her tribe, and when we passed their camp, the pestilence killed two of our strongest warriors. She followed us, until we were forced to stone her and cast her out. She only lingers over yonder hill, waiting for us, like Death himself. Perhaps she will soon leave us to live in peace."

I pondered her meaning for a moment as we sat in silence.

"What is her name?" I asked suddenly, unsure why but inexplicably needing to know. A chilly breeze raised gooseflesh on my arms.

"She calls herself Batraz."

I sat on the top of the hill, waiting, although for what, I didn't know. I had quickly excused myself after learning the girl's name, for it was the same name that I had called out in my dream, just two weeks before the massacre; I'd been so certain it was only a night terror. I was never a superstitious person, but it gave me the frightening feeling that maybe there was some truth or message in it.

"You are brave, to come up here," a steady voice said from behind me. I jumped to my feet, knife out in a moment.

But what met my eyes tugged at what would have been my heart, if I hadn't already decided I didn't possess one. The girl Batraz stood before me, her dark hair dirty and tangled, and her heart-shaped face hollow-cheeked and streaked with grime. I sheathed my knife, feeling rather sorry for her, but the girl was not pleased.

"Give your pity to your own troubles, for your lot in life is as bad as mine." She said angrily. But when I remained there, rather than leaving her, she checked herself and looked at me almost shyly.

"You do not fear me," It wasn't a question. "Why?"

"I do not believe in demons." I said simply. Sometimes the most important things are not said with words.

* * *

The following day was our last full day in Sarmatia. We'd be entering Gaul within the next few days, and tomorrow we'd be saying farewell to our homeland for what would probably be the last time.

They selected two of the boys, Beucan and Zanticus. The former was a mild, plain boy of 14 years who looked oddly calm about leaving home. Zanticus, on the other hand, looked surly at the prospect, glaring from under heavy dark brows at the Romans.

He must've been around 16, tough, with thick arms and a stocky torso, and legs that were slightly too short. Despite this, he stood taller than me, topping my height by at least three inches.

Lancelot, who seemed to have personally appointed himself my _tarn_, or protector, confided that he didn't trust Zanticus, and I was inclined to agree.

That evening, I went up to the top of the hill again. I waited for nigh an hour, but Batraz was gone, as the winter cold in the face of the spring.

Lancelot came to find me when I didn't return, and the rest of the boys, except the two from the village, filed up in ones and twos soon after. No one spoke, or laughed. We sat in silence. The setting sun cast long shadows in the valleys, while red-gold light spilled across the hilltops like honey.

Tears wetted every face before the orb had passed the dark line of the horizon. I pillowed my head on Lancelot's shoulder, and he laid his own atop mine. It was a gesture of friendship and comfort that no one mistook.

Long after the sun had set its light still shone on the clouds, purpling the scene as the plains passed into twilight. Still we looked on, together and mourning for the lives we had lost. Even when the stars winked at us from a broad expanse of unveiled heavens, we held our hands out to each other, and none could refuse.

* * *

The morning dawned cloudy, the dreary gray of despair, in perfect keeping with our mood. We broke camp and mounted up with the same flat, colorless feeling as the sky above us.

It nearly broke my heart when I heard the sendoff I should've had, if this had been my destiny, even had my family survived. It was a low roar of love and longing, grief and hope. The cheer of the Sarmatians, an age-old cry.

* * *

Two weeks after our departure from Sarmatia, we encountered and merged with a larger group of nineteen recruited boys, and soon after that, a smaller group of only eight as well.

The band as a whole was filled with righteous anger at my conscription. It made me feel odd, as all I felt was emptiness inside. I decided there must be _something_ wrong with me, that I'd been dealt such ill luck, and yet said nothing against it, felt nothing against it.

Even so, sometimes I wondered if, perhaps, they only felt so outraged because they thought they should. Wasgergi, god of contracts and soldiers, knew that they made plenty of time for pitying themselves.

As we rode toward our impending fate, I began to design my role amongst the Sarmatian brotherhood. I held that if I didn't keep myself apart from the other knights, I might slip up and reveal my secret, and they would forever hate me.

And so I tried to make myself as unapproachable as I could, but I found that such an attempt was rather contrary to my nature. Bits of tarnish seemed to rub off my muddy exterior, drawing the more open-minded boys to me like wire through a drawplate. They didn't ask for it, some of them didn't even particularly like it, but there you are.

Lancelot seemed rather unaccustomed to the role of protector, as easily as he had fallen into it. He was self-serving, to the point where one could call him an arrogant, conceited wretch. Of course, one could call him many other things, I soon found. Without quite realizing how, I had become used to trading banter in the mornings, as we two were often the only early risers.

Being the only girl, I was also roped into domestic duties – washing clothes, cooking meals, and such – until they realized that every tunic I was made to clean came back dirtier than before, spotty with mud and half-sterile patches, and every meal was sure to be burnt.

The only domestic trait I seemed remotely capable of accomplishing was healing. Balai once grumbled that it was just as well I didn't stay with the tribes to become a full-grown woman; any husband I chose would surely cast me out for incompetence.

I threw a ladle at him.

When first we crossed over the mountains, we gazed slack-jawed at their heights. According to our Roman jailers, they were only foothills compared to the real peaks to the southeast. But to Sarmatians, who came from a sea of rolling plains, they were a sight to behold. They were snowcapped, even in summer, and with craggy slopes that seemed to slice the heavens open.

Gaul wasn't an extraordinary place. Clouds marred the sky's blue perfection, concealing the sun's warmth from the earth most days, and floating on the horizon as a threatening reminder of their presence whenever Khors blessed us with his light.

One day, about two months after I first set out on that hellish quest, we crested a ridge and froze, terrified. Several of the younger boys began crying and praying for mercy, while the rest of us sat still on our horses, stunned.

One boy muttered in a hushed voice, "May the Living Zhihar protect us. Don-Bettyr has swallowed the land!" He referred to our god of water.

The two Romans in front had ridden ahead, hardly noticing our trepidation. Marcus turned in his saddle when one of his underlings muttered in his ear.

"For God's sake, you fools, it's only the sea!" The soldiers riding behind us laid the flats of their blades against our horses' flanks, startling the beasts into frantic motion.

Once the rear riders had calmed their four-legged companions, we glared sullenly at the offenders, but carried on. Sarmatians had never beaten their horses like chattel, but treated them like dear friends, even family. To do so was a thing that drew great contempt from our hearts.

We descended the hill, soon reaching the bustling seaside town known as Portus Itius, the port that marked the shortest crossing between Gaul and Britain, as Marcus told it.

The Gallic people mingled with Romans there with surprising amity for a conquered people. They lined the roads, side by side, to stare at us.

I felt their eyes on me in particular, and shrank away from their gaze. Balai and Lancelot, my Knights Errant, noticed this and sandwiched me between them as the others closed protectively around the three of us.

Even Zanticus felt offended at their open stares at the rare sight of a Sarmatian woman and dropped back to spread threatening glares all around. I saw several hostile glances directed at the inquisitive populus, and felt reassured.

We were put up in a stable for the night, sleeping with our horses on the stale hay. We dropped onto our pallets without complaint, weary from a long day in the saddle.

With the soft sounds of horses whickering drifting to my ears, I slept.

* * *

_Two days later…_

The soft nose of my Simargl woke me as he nudged my prone body. I blinked sleepily at him and reached out to push the offending appendage away. He only brought it back again, snuffing hungrily as he rolled a forlorn eye at me. I groaned and sat up. My lower back was stiff and sore from a full day of riding, but not so that I couldn't function.

I padded sleepily out of the stall designated as mine and into Lancelot's, just across the way. A solid kick brought him swiftly round to consciousness. I ignored his irritable glare and mumbled,

"I'm off to find something to eat. Cover for me, would you?" We weren't strictly allowed to leave the stables, but I needed some real food, and so did Simargl. In the face of that pressing need, the Romans and their orders be damned, I was going to eat. If they didn't like it, they could all go to Sad's fiery hell.

The market was easy to find; I had only to follow my nose. The Romans had given us two coppers as pension, and I, at one point in the journey, had supplemented it with a little help from their own purses.

When the busy square that I was seeking tumbled into view, I stopped and stared like any green merchantman. The fact that I _was_ green was entirely irrelevant; even the most hardened tradesman would've whistled appreciatively at the sight of a Roman market such as this one.

Being the main port between Gaul and one of Rome's greatest outlying provinces, the market in Portus Itius was a trade center that rivaled that of any Roman city I had ever seen. Rich colors leapt at me with vibrant gaiety, while early morning shoppers hurried from one stall to the next, sure of their destinations.

Spices cruelly assault my sensitive country nose, while the uneven cobbles beneath my feet moved unexpectedly, causing me to stumble about like a drunkard while my eyes roamed.

Two delicious hot rolls, an apple in my pocket, and a pint of ale later, I was content to sit by the wayside and watch the strange and frightening expanse that Marcus called the sea. It rolled and fluctuated, spraying a fine white mist to speckle the piers that stood over the water's surface. I took a good, healthy sniff, facing into the landward breeze, and sneezed. A salty, sour smell permeated the air and, I discovered, had made its way into my hair and clothing.

Giggling caught my attention. Looking down, I saw several pairs of young eyes peering at me from around corners and behind tethered horses. I tilted my head back to catch the wind in my face again, then sighed and addressed my "invisible" audience.

"Alright," I said, "What do you want?"

A girl, a scrawny little thing, appeared in front of me, closely watched by an older boy standing against a wagon, who I suppose was her brother.

"Are you really a knight?" she asked me.

I nodded shortly. "I suppose so. I will be, at any rate."

"You don't look like a knight. You're a girl. Why did they pick _you_ to be a knight?"

I scowled at her, and an older girl shushed her. "Gaia! That was rude."

"But Lucie, I was just _curious_. Papa says there's no harm in questions, if the questioner is honest and-"

"The questionee is true. My father said that as well." I looked at her thoughtfully, and then shook my head, a curtain of black despair falling across the windows of my eyes. "He said many things."

The older girl, Lucie – Gaia's sister, I presume – nudged her.

"You see? Now you've done it." She turned to me.

"I am Lucia Valeria Drusa, daughter of Tiberius Valerius Drusus. This is my sister Gaia, and over there, against the wagon, is my brother Marcus." Later I would take a moment to reflect on the rather coincidental fact that all of the males who, for any number of reasons, decided to ruin my life seemed to share that fateful and ultimately unhappy name.

Lucia went back to her sister.

"You shouldn't bother people so, Gaia. People with secrets especially. You might bring up memories that they'd rather forget."

And suddenly – suddenly, I didn't want to forget. I wanted, so very, very badly, to remember everything.

I knelt in front of Gaia, taking her small hand in mine.

"Little Gaia," I said, my voice rough with emotion, "Never stop asking questions. You might allow someone to forget something that they would rather remember. You-"

A hand roughly grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I nearly overbalanced and fell, but caught myself against the wall and crouched, glaring angrily at the boy who'd placed himself between his sister and me.

"I think it's time for you to get back to your pen, Sarmatian whore." He sneered, placing a protective hand on Gaia's shoulder. She looked up at him in confusion.

My lip curled in hatred of this whelp's impudence. Why, he was younger than me by at least a year! He couldn't have been more than fourteen to my fifteen, but he was taller and broader than me nonetheless.

"Care to say that again, Roman dog?" I growled menacingly, placing a hand on my hilt. Lucia tugged at her brother's arm futilely, but was shaken off.

I appraised him carefully. His only weapon was a short knife, while I openly carried a sword, and a few quiet blades besides. His was of excellent quality, though, so no doubt he'd had the best of teachers since he could walk. _Spoiled Roman nobility_, I thought as red rage boiled in my veins.

We held our positions for a moment, and then I stood fluidly and stalked over to him, spitting full in his face.

He disdained from showing anger at my act, but pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his face in disgust. _Oh, a _handkerchief_. Terribly sorry, milord, I didn't know you were so dignified and – _refined I mocked silently.

"Gaia, Lucia, go home to Father." The two girls opened their mouths to argue, but he snapped at them forcefully. "Now!"

They scurried off, leaving us alone.

* * *

I threw myself into Simargl's stall, hiding behind his bulk. Sensing my apprehension, he sidled and blew air out of his nose.

I'd worked with him over the past two months, teaching him hand signals, whistles and signals with the knees, while also training him to respond to me, and me alone. I gave him one of those gestures now, and he took a defensive stance at the door, snorting threateningly.

The angry buzz of the mob of young boys grew louder. I peeked out the door and saw Lancelot and a boy named Gawain playing dice in his stall. I whistled low, catching his attention while staying out of sight.

"Lance, we've got a problem." Quickly I explained to him what had happened by the piers, omitting the part where I spoke to Gaia. I heard him stiffen when I told him what the boy had called me, and once I finished, he told me to wait and ran off to confer with the other boys.

When Marcus came skidding to a halt inside the stable walls, something less than a dozen of his peers behind him, he found himself facing about twenty Sarmatians who lounged in the hay, loaded bows in their laps and swords close to hand. Another dozen sat in the rafters. Tristan's long legs dangled in the open air above them, his face concealed by the shadows as he munched on apple pieces carved with a wickedly sharp dagger. And, of course, there was the angry warhorse pawing the dirt in their midst.

And me, well, I was crouching out of sight in Simargl's empty stall, once again letting the boys fight my battles. And seething, of course, because it was unanimously decided that as I had caused the problem, I ought to have no part in the fun of finishing it.

Besides, as Lancelot pointed out, I was in enough trouble already, what with sneaking out of the stable that morning in the first place. Apparently he wasn't a good enough liar to convince Marcus (_Captain_ Marcus Tullius, and not Marcus bleeding Valerius Drusus) that I had stepped out to relieve myself.

Their beating commenced. The muffled sounds met my ears, and I sighed and burrowed further into the hay, my ears burning in silent embarrassment. I remembered with diminishing pride how I had acquitted myself down by the docks.

_"Now," Marcus said, "Perhaps it is time for you to learn your place, Sarmatian." He rolled up his sleeves, cracking his knuckles in aneffort to intimidate me._

_His eyes suddenly flickered down when he felt the cold, keen edge of my knife against his throat. The little blade was scarcely the length of my finger, and half as wide, but sharp as the devil's teeth. We both noticed at the same moment that there was no one to see us, whatever we did. Somehow we'd maneuvered into a narrow alley that continued onward, shrouded in shadows._

"_If you kill me, they _will_ kill you." He jerked his head to the right, where a quick glance proved that six other boys had materialized to close in on me. "You'll be brought up before the justice and hanged for murder. Or, if they aren't in a forgiving frame of mind, they might give you forty lashes for treason, then hand you over to the soldiers of the city guard for their pleasure and enjoyment._

"_And _if_ you survive, perhaps they will hang you then. But I hear the market is high for Sarmatian women, they being so… rare. I can't understand the appeal it holds for them, myself." He looked me up and down in a derogatory way, sending shivers rippling all the way to my toes. I felt defiled. I tensed, and brought the knife a little harder against his neck, drawing a thin line of blood from the broken flesh._

"_You wouldn't find appeal in a woman if it bit you in the arse, _little boy_." My gaze lingered on a part of him that he obviously thought was quite a bit larger than it was, it being where all of his thinking took place._

"_Unless you've already found it? Naughty Marcus, mothers don't count as conquests."_

_He grew recklessly wild and roared a fearless roar of fury, moving to attack even with my blade still at his neck. Without any conscious thought, my hand snapped out and up, crushing his nose with one blow, then reaching behind his head and pulling it down into my ascending knee. The resulting blow stun him, but still he came, charging madly. Blood from his broken nose sprayed messily._

_Hands grabbed at my arms, pulling me back, pulling me down to pin me against the ground as I tried to duck away from them. Marcus' cronies had circled around behind me, and I'd stupidly forgotten about their presence._

_The first blows rained down on my head and neck, and I kicked out without discrimination. My foot connected with several someones, and I felt a momentary satisfaction when I heard a yell of pain. Then the feeling faded abruptly as someone – likely my victim turned vengeful predator – drove a hard, cruel elbow into my stomach. A fist landed simultaneously in my eye._

_A starburst of colorful pain erupted above my right eyebrow. I wheezed and coughed for breath, and felt something pop sharply. For the first time, I cried out, curling into a ball to protect the broken rib._

_I began to panic when I couldn't get my breath back. My wind was knocked out, as it were, and knowing that, I tried to calm myself down. Being unable to breathe is a fear that is so deeply rooted in the human instinct that it supercedes all else._

_I hardly even noticed that the blows had stopped, knowing only that I was free to crawl and heave myself to my feet._

"_Go!" I heard a muted voice shout, as though through a fog. A horseman had placed himself between myself and my attackers. In one clear moment, I saw his handsome face, with bright eyes and curly black hair, quite perfectly. He was like my own guardian angel, had I ever once believed in such a thing._

_My right eye was swelling rapidly, and I couldn't see a thing past the swelling. I half stumbled, half ran, crying out when my arm knocked into my broken rib._

_I stopped and leaned against a pillar, gasping from my run. Dizziness took over for a moment and I sat down hard, putting my head between my knees to regain control of myself._

_When I felt reasonably strong enough to continue, I stood and began walking more sedately toward my destination. My normally acute inner compass became useful as I tried to navigate my way through the unfamiliar city streets._

_It was then that I heard the shout of recognition. I spun around and saw the swarm of angry boys turn the corner after their fellow's cry. Taking off in the other direction, I passed the market, dodging around beings and beasts. A wagon traveling at a crisp pace pulled up hastily to avoid running me down and its driver shook his fist and cursed at me, but it was too late and I had gone._

_The stable was in sight by then, and I passed the soldiers guarding it without a problem. They recognized the scarlet costume I was wearing from when I rode in the previous morning. A flash of red and I was through the gates, safely ensconced in hay._

I heard the groans of Romans in pain, and reveled in it. The sounds of the scuffle died away, leaving me to assume that the boys had run with their proverbial tails between their legs.

A bolt of pain lanced through my side. I looked down at the blood spattered on my shirt, but I couldn't seem to remember how it had gotten there…

* * *

_MUSE… _

Lancelot flexed his hands to loosen them after the fight had ended. These Roman youngsters had no backbone; show them a bit of resistance and they crumbled. Show them a little fear, and they thrived.

Everything seemed to be in order in the stable. A few of the Sarmatians had scuffed hay over dark spots on the ground, left by the blood of broken noses and the cuts and scrapes associated with a soldiers' brawl.

"Isolde?" he called, thinking, _surely she ought to have ventured out by now_. He went to Simargl's stall, pulling the door open. _Perhaps she was angry with us for making her sit out._

"_Sad's balls!"_ He exclaimed upon seeing her. He very nearly marched out to hunt down the Romans who did this and kill them, once and for all.

She sported several injuries. One eye had puffed up, balloon-like, and blood from a cut on her eyebrow had spilled over her slack features. The whole of her face was spotted with darkening bruises. A knife cut to her shoulder had dripped blood down her arm, darkening her red tunic with a wet stain.

His shout had summoned Gawain and his close friend, impetuous Galahad. They peered over his shoulder.

"Bloody wench!" Gawain roared. "She didn't even tell us she was hurt!"

Lancelot picked her up, careful not to bother her injuries, but he startled a groan from her despite his caution. Carrying her was awkward, but not too difficult. She was still thin from the days after her family died; in fact, she would probably remain that way for the rest of her life.

He kicked the stall door open further to keep her head clear of the corner. The antics of Gawain had attracted the attention of several other boys, each of whom wore equally shocked looks when they saw her limp form.

The large, usually cheerful Balai rushed up to them.

"What happened?" He had been one of those out of the stable during the fight. Gawain gave him a summary of the previous hour or so.

"And none of you thought to check on her?" Balai's voice was accusing.

"Seeing as she said nothing of it and we were a bit preoccupied at the time, I think it's rather understandable that we didn't." Lancelot replied with cool sarcasm. "And where were you? Fraternizing with the Romans?"

Balai snarled an oath, suggesting something that Lancelot didn't think was even physically possible, but an amused voice brought up the improbability of the action before Lancelot could even open his mouth.

"Why don't you try that sometime, Balai? I can't imagine it would be particularly satisfying, though you're welcome to attempt it." Isolde coughed harshly and added, "Let me know how it goes. And Lance, you ass, would you put me down already?"

He complied, and she hissed as she straightened up. She swayed a little, and both boys started forward to steady her, each glaring jealously at the other.

"I'll take her," Lancelot gritted out.

"You've proven quite well that you can't properly care for her-"

"If you don't stop this, I'm going to strangle both of you," Isolde snapped. Her side was one massive hurt, and all she wanted was to go lie down.

The boys stopped bickering, but a high-strung tension ran between them.

Isolde sighed, jerking her arms out of both of their grasps.

"Tristan, would you kindly escort me to the infirmary," she asked. "I believe I've forgotten where it is, and I'm not sure how well I'd be able to find in the shape I'm in, anyway."

The dark boy emerged from the shadows where he'd been observing the conversation. Without a word he paced alongside her as she walked, a trifle unsteady, to the door. He paused once to smirk back at the rather dumbfounded boys behind him.

Lancelot and Balai, standing side by side, wondered what had prompted their charge to choose the company of one she had so carefully and blatantly avoided from the very first, over their own. They glanced at each other to share a frown and a bewildered look, then recovered their composure and turned their backs on one another.

* * *

_ISOLDE… _

Tristan sat in the chair near my bunk as the healer set my broken rib, lending a constant support in the presence of the Roman physician.

With a broken rib, a badly swollen black eye, and stitches above my eyebrow and in my arm, I had no chance of leaving my bed (by the healer's decree) and so had plenty of time to think, to my chagrin.

I know I had made a mistake in going out against orders this morning, and I regretted it – really, I did. All the same, I was confused and more than a little angry with myself. I'd never been a hothead before, but today I was quick to take the bait. It wasn't like it was words I hadn't heard before; the Romans who traveled with us had muttered such insults under their breath at least once a day.

No, I didn't know what had made me explode, and it chilled me. If I couldn't control myself in a city, against a younger boy, then how on earth would I prevent myself from losing control on the battlefield, when there might not be anyone to save me and it might be one of my brothers who were hurt or killed?

Battle madness, that's what they called it, when the red fog obscured your perception and good judgment was blown to hell. It was something most fighters regarded as a curse, rather than a blessing. Only the most battle-weary would welcome it as a means to escape their sins. I fervently hoped I wasn't susceptible to it, or I might be meeting Sad sooner than I'd like.

And to top it off, my two best friends were at each other's throats… again. I couldn't understand what offense had pitted them so dead-set against one another, but whenever they were both around me their hackles instantly went up.

Oh, they were courteous enough when I wasn't near, but something about me seemed to bring out the worst in them, and it saddened me.

The incident this morning had taught me one thing, although I didn't particularly like it. Orders were meant to be obeyed.

"So." Tristan said in his usual, quiet manner. I didn't need to ask what he meant.

"I shouldn't have gone," I said. He kept looking at me, prompting me to continue. "I endangered my brothers, as well as myself. I – I suppose if this were a tale, and I a bard, I would say the moral is that sometimes… sometimes orders are there to protect us, rather than to restrict us. But it's not a tale, is it?" I asked suddenly. "And it wasn't there to protect us, though it could have been, in another world, another time."

Tristan nodded at last, satisfied that I understood the circumstances.

"No," he agreed, "It isn't a tale." He gestured around, encompassing the infirmary, the city, Gaul, all that had happened in the past nine weeks with that one wave of his hand. "It's all too real."

* * *

I received a month's probation for my actions that day; a fine way to begin my servitude. The following morning, Balai and Lancelot crept into my room, heads hanging dejectedly. I'd already had them forcefully expelled from my room (the healer was all too happy to get rid of them after I got into a shouting match with the two of them and attempted to hurl a very heavy basin at them). They apologized, looking so contrite that I had to forgive them both.

Balai sat down next to me on the bed, and it looked for a moment like Lancelot would say something, but he closed his mouth and sheepishly ducked his head.

Two days later, when I was to be allowed out of my bed, Balai burst into the room, all smiles and bright cheerfulness. I, on the other hand, glowered fiercely at him, which of course didn't dampen his jollity a bit.

"Rise with the sun, little vixen!" he crows happily, using the nickname they'd affectionately, and also quite irritatingly, dubbed me with. "Come, let's to the stables. We've much to do and we set sail today!"

I considered my options; shoot him as soon as I was near a bow, push him off the side of the ship and let him drown, or call in Lancelot – who was sure to burst anyone's bubble – to cleave his head from his shoulders. For certain, the days on the plains, when I rose early and easily, were long past.

In the end I decided to settle it peacefully. When "go away" didn't cut it, I grumbled and commented, "You're a painfully cheery person to be around, did you know?"

He only grinned, patting my cheek.

"Nonsense," he said, "I'm just naturally optimistic."

I growled and tossed a pillow at his head. He threw it back at me. A pillow war ensued, which ended with he and I in something of a compromising position on the floor and Gawain looking on bemusedly from the doorway.

"When you two are finished, we'll be going. Just don't take too long, you know how testy these Romans get when their farts are ignored." He left the room.

I jumped away from Balai as though I'd been scalded, blushing furiously. When I looked over I saw that Balai had done the same. Before we rejoined the others, I pulled him aside.

"Bal – I hope you don't think that I – that we–"

"No," he interrupted, "not at all, that would just be too – you know."

I sighed in relief. "Yes. You just… you don't have what I'm looking for, Balai. In a relationship, I mean. Don't take it personally."

"Aye," he agreed. "And you're far too feisty for my liking. I'd be gray before I'm thirty if I took up with you!"

"Friends?" he asked.

"Always," I replied, clasping his arm with mine.

He grinned. "Good. Then I can do this." And he pulled me in and kissed me.

Gatalas had kissed me before, but that was the kiss a boy gives to a girl, and he was dead now. This was different. Sometime in the past few months, I'd become a woman without my realizing, and I was getting my first true kiss from a man.

Balai pulled away smiling, as always. I stood rooted to the spot, my mouth hanging open in surprise. "Oh," I managed faintly.

His lips brushed my ear. "Just a friendly little kiss," he murmured, and opened the stable door.

* * *

I was still dazed when I walked into Simargl's stall to saddle him, slinging my packs across his hindquarters. My possessions had grown in number as we traveled, rather than diminishing.

We mounted our horses easily, some vaulting into the saddle to show these conservative Romans how it was done. When we were prepared to leave, we formed up, sharp and square. I once again rode in the middle, but my fear had morphed into rebellious pride, and I sat tall in my saddle, fading bruises and all.

Although we'd been scheduled to leave several days from now, the incident with the Roman brats hurried things along a bit. Marcus had "convinced" the ship's captain to hasten his departure, though he did so none too happily. He was forced to leave much of his goods behind in order to match our request.

The horses were loaded first, and we took the packs off one by one and slung them over our own shoulders to place in our mass quarters for easy access during the voyage. Then came our personal supplies and those that were to come with us, and finally we were allowed to cross the gangway.

* * *

_MUSE…_

Marcus Tullius parted company withthem beforethey could depart; all were glad to see the back of him.

Before he left, he leaned over to hiss something into Isolde's ear. Just behind her,Lancelot saw her shoulders stiffen suddenly, and she whipped around with a hand to her "tripped" and jostled her, and she glared athim but moved along saw the red rage slip from her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. Murdering this Roman would not be particularly beneficial to her well-being. She called out something to Tullius, and he paused, then disappeared around a corner.

Once aboard,Lancelot watched Isolde as she retreated to the front of the galley and faced away from the rest of the Sarmatians. Worried,he started toward her, only to hearhis name shouted from the stern. With one last look athis friend,he turned and followed the call.

* * *

_ISOLDE…_

We set off in the dark of night, without even the doubtful light of the moon to guide our vessel as we drifted out of the harbor and began with long, steady strokes to draw closer to our sorry fate.

A new ally, Kaeso Naevius Avitus, had taught me much about the peculiar stretch that was the sea during the day. He showed me how to tie several knots and how to man the oars while paying attention to the other rowers so that the vessel cleaved a straight line – standard seamanship, he said – until the galley's captain put a stop to it.

"A waste," he'd called it. As he'd walked away with his crewman, I heard him tell Kaeso, "You oughtn't to encourage these barbarians, _Comes_ Avitus. They'll be dead before they have the chance to make the return journey."

Kaeso was careful to stay away from me after that.

After Marcus took his leave of us on the dock, I went off to the _bow_ of the ship, as Kaeso would have it – I still thought of it as the front – and sat out on the beam that protruded from the hull, where not even small Askhkadar would venture for fear of falling and plunging into the chilly sea.

The captain rotated us Sarmatians in three shifts for rowing, two hours on, four hours off. I didn't like the look in his eyes when I boarded the galley, and so I endeavored to stay far out of his way – as far as I could get on a crowded ship in the middle of the Oceanus Brittannicus. Likewise, the captain ignored me, except for sending leery glances in my direction as though he knew something about me, which he bloody well didn't.

Lancelot and Balai, on separate shifts, stood by the bow and tried to coax me from my perch, but I said nothing and they soon gave up and just stood there quietly until it was their turn to row. Meanwhile, I stared down at the cold black water, looking utterly calm and quiet, but inside I raged. With a shudder of intense fury, I recalled Marcus' words exactly, the way the din of the afternoon market faded and warped around each syllable, how the stubble on his chin scratched my cheek as he leaned in, the sharp details of his handsome, cruel face…

"_It's a pity," he sneered at me, and I heard the menace in his voice and shrank back, "that the Romans didn't have a chance to have some fun with your bitch mother before they killed her. I hear your sister was good, up until they put a knife in the whore's heart. Your father took down only two as they planted the arrows of the Huns in the ground before he was also cut down. But you know, a dog is only a dog, after all, and must be disciplined."_

_I very nearly sank my sword into his evil heart right there, but I dredged up reserves of control that I never knew I had when Lancelot banged into my shoulder, reminding me to be careful. I mentally visualized tearing out his throat and feeding his balls to the hogs, or stringing him up and peppering him with arrows, and I_ really _wanted to claw his face with my nails and shriek and hurt him as badly as he and his have hurt me._

_But I did none of these things. Instead, I stood shaking with barely suppressed murder boiling in my soul._

_As he left, I turned glassy eyes on his retreating profile and managed to force out, "Watch your back, Marcus Tullius. One day I will return and destroy all you hold dear. There is one thing you cannot take from me, for I have not sold my soul as you have. Watch your back, Marcus Tullius, or you will find yourself in hell before your time."_

_His steps faltered only a moment before he turned a corner and was lost to sight._

I came back to myself and pried my hands from the beam, pulling splinters of wood from under my nails.

One thing was for certain, and that was that the boys must never learn of this, or they would kill every Roman in Britain and sign their own death warrants.

I wondered that it was they who needed restraining from avenging the deaths of _my_ clan, and that I was the one so coldly and calmly preventing it. Had I no heart at all, as I'd feared? There was surely no hope of redemption for me now.

It was nearly dawn when I finally stirred. I unwrapped my legs from the beam – or tried to. Over the long hours, my muscles had cramped and were now knotted tightly, but with the help of Lancelot – who was currently standing watch over me – I managed to return to the deck, whereupon I collapsed into a sitting position on the planks. Lancelot wordlessly handed me the blanket he'd had wrapped around his own shoulders, and I thankfully took it, teeth chattering heavily. Then Lance sat down at my right side, and Balai took the left.

I felt so warm and comforted by this, with the two of them sitting pressed up next to me that I was nearly asleep when I realized that I'd been asked a question.

"Wha'" I murmured sleepily.

"I said, what ails you, vixen?" Balai repeated. I was still for a moment. I looked up at them with shuttered eyes and searched their dear faces, filled with concern and slowly, sadly shook my head from side to side.

"Nothing," I heard myself say. "Nothing, I'm fine now." And I think we all knew it isn't true.

* * *

But that night, when a cold dinner was brought out and we all fell to, I found myself sitting between the captain and one of the rowers, a burly man with hard eyes, whose name I didn't know. Throughout the meal, as the captain indulged in more and more wine, I sat rigidly on the hard bench.

Lancelot and Balai, my two protectors, didn't notice, one being fast asleep on a pallet near the stern, and the other occupied telling stories of his exploits to his brothers-in-arms.

Most of the crew was Gallish, and as they jabbered away in their strange, fluid language, the Captain (a Roman who despite his heritage had spent his entire life among Gauls) laughed loudly at something they said and placed his ham-like hand high on my thigh, giving it a suggestive squeeze.

Furious as I was with Rome and Romans, it's needless to say that this was a bad idea. I roared out my anger and stood, kicking the surprised man in the chest – an action that spilled him none-too-gently onto the wooden deck. In a moment I had the point of my blade at his throat, ready for the kill.

"Hold!" The order possessed such command that I stayed my hand and snapped my head around to meet a pair of green eyes, eyes belonging to a handsome youth with curly black hair. I hadn't forgotten that face.

"_You!_" I gasped in shock, lowering my sword. I could see the knights out of the corner of my eye as they looked back and forth between us.

The boy blinked. A slow smile spread across his face, the like of which I hadn't seen in quite a while, both kind and sincere. Immediately I thought, _I can trust this boy_. I sheathed my sword.

"It's the girl from the fight in the alley!" he said while looking genuinely happy to see me again. "Had I known you were Sarmatian, I would have brought you back myself to be sure you were alright and to meet with my knights." _What?_

"I didn't have a chance to thank you for your aid then," I said, though in truth I was quite confused by this point. "I would like to do so now."

He inclined his head, acknowledging my gratitude. _Like a young lord_, I thought, _nodding benevolently to his people._

"But… who _are_ you?" I blurted out, and I knew immediately that I sounded terribly ignorant, but I couldn't stand not knowing.

I saw a few of my Sarmatian brothers hide sudden smiles, and I sent a withering scowl in their direction.

The stranger was a bit more successful at concealing his mirth, but still his mouth turned up at the corners and a dimple showed in his left cheek.

"Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I am–" Lancelot chose this moment to step forward and interrupt the "young lord". He had a teasing grin plastered to his face and rocked back on his heels with glee.

"Please, allow me." Without waiting for an answer, the dear, dead Lancelot happily continued. "While you were moping, dear vixen," This time no one bothered to hide their amusement. "We men-" I snorted "-were hard at work, getting to know our new companion. Let me introduce you to…" He paused, and I made a rude gesture to express what I thought of his stalling.

"…Lucius Artorius Castus, our new commander." He bowed to some applause and ribald comments from the Sarmatians.

"Call me Arthur, please," Arthur said.

I stumbled back. A Roman! I could feel my horror showing on my face. So many damned Romans!

Of course I'd known we would be commanded by a Roman, and we'd probably be surrounded by Roman regulars when we finally arrived at our post, but I didn't expect to be so easily taken in by him, and I was _not_ happy with myself in the least. I didn't expect to want to trust him.

I didn't expect to _like_ him.

"Not another one…" I moaned.

"Another what?" Arthur asked, looking concerned. _He _would_ look concerned, wouldn't he?_

"Roman," I spat out.

"Half." _What?_

"Half what?" I asked.

"I'm only half Roman," he said. "My father was a Roman, my mother one of the woads, the wild natives of Britain." Well, that's alright then, isn't it?

_No_, my stubborn side insisted. _A Roman is a Roman, be he noble, merchant, or a half-breed mutt, as this one claims to be._

The boys seemed to have made their peace with him. But then, they didn't know what I knew.

"Khors," I muttered, "I'm so _confused_."

Lancelot looked put out when his introduction didn't quite go as planned. I put a hand on his shoulder as I walked past. Back to the bow I went, straddling the beam closer to the base this time so that I could relax against the rail and didn't have to cling to the wood to stay on.

I had a lot to think about.

* * *

It took us a total of four hellish days to cross the channel between Gaul and Britain – hellish because the wind picked up away from shore, and suddenly the ship was pitching back and forth, rolling onto first one side, staying there for an interminably long time, and then rocking over to stand on the other side.

Meanwhile the vessel was lifted up and dropped again on the other side of the wave as the stomach jumped traitorously into the throat to gag you.

To my immense annoyance, I was the only one who actually loses the contents of my stomach during the voyage; the others were green for awhile, but after two days or so they got over it and were prancing around for the rest of the trip.

I, however, spent all four days on my knees, getting to know the bottom of a foul-smelling bucket very, very well.

It settled my mind on one point – for certain I wasn't meant for the seafaring life. The whole thing was a tortuous experience I'd rather forget. I wasn't even sure I wanted to make the return trip if this was the price.

That is, if I lived long enough to have the choice, because I had the strange and frightening feeling that once I reached this island, I would never leave it either way.

* * *

It confronted us with smooth green curves that would prove deceptively friendly, gentle wooded hillocks and happily gurgling rivers, grimy children peering at us from the protection of their tiny villages.

It was where we'd spend the next 15 years of our lives, where we would spill the blood of our enemies, where we would kill and be killed. Whatever had happened in the past, and whatever lay on the horizon, this place would decide our fates.

And so we watched, silent, observing with quiet resignation our first glimpse of Britain.

* * *

End Chapter.

IF YOU ARE ENJOYING THIS, you are welcome to check out Fortune's Fool, although that's HP fanfiction, not KA, and I'm on a roll with this one now. To Dance Alone is also another option, and one I may continue to a fuller extent once I finally finish PoM.

**Ribhinn**

Review.


	3. III

_"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."_

* * *

**Peace of Mind **

_ISOLDE…_

The earth under my feet felt strange, as though it wanted to reject these invading newcomers from the island that was Britannia. There was a stiff landward breeze that ruffled my hair, which now hung two inches below my shoulders.

Behind me, the other knights disembarked from the galley, bidding a farewell to those upon her who they'd befriended over the last week. As they were all Gauls and not Romans, I had no problem with them, though I'd stayed away regardless.

I noticed Artorius sending puzzled and calculating glances my way, as though pondering how to win me over. The others (except Zanticus, who seemed to take pleasure in spreading discord) had accepted his kind, brisk, and ultimately fair manner, and they, too, looked at me strangely when I turned my back on his entreaties for peace between us.

While I sat and thought that first night, a horrible possibility had surfaced in my mind. What if this Artorius was one of the Romans who massacred my family? What then? Granted, it would give me much better access to him, as one of his knights.

But, I pondered, it would be a task to find out if he _had_ been involved. And if so, if I killed him, I'd soon be found out for my treachery and executed forthwith, thereby forfeiting my chance to find the rest of the murderers, which meant that once I found one for certain, I'd have to torture him to discover the identity and location of the others, however distasteful I found that method of interrogation. There had been so many tracks, I remembered. So many… how would I find all of them?

I would have to begin my investigation pending our arrival at Badon Hill, which was to be our post for the coming fifteen years. The matter required further thought.

We rode away from that dreadful blue expanse, myself heading the line in my eagerness to put distance between it and me, the others with some wistful glances – were they not meant for the warrior life, some would have made fair sailors.

Tristan and I, along with two others named Carradas and Brehus, both as quietly observant as we two, were sent to scout in pairs. Each pair was assigned one of our three guides, though the third stayed with Artorius.

Tristan and I rode uneasily – or I do, at least. The fact that he knew my deepest secret made me uncomfortable around him, even fear him for the power he had over me, though he hadn't as of yet wielded it.

So I sat stiffly on Simargl's back while he looked cursedly languid atop his black menace of a horse, listening and absorbing our guide's whispered advice.

It seemed that the four of us who had been selected were to be the regular scouts, while a few of the others would be trained to replace us – should we need replacing.

Brandelis, our guide and the first true Briton I'd met, gathered an accounting of our skills when we showed a more-than-rudimentary knowledge of navigation. After all, we came from the indistinguishable plains of Sarmatia, where every direction yielded the same view and predators both primal and sentient lurked in the high grass. Living there had forced Sarmatians to develop and ingratiate methods of scouting and navigating into every young mind over the generations.

I thanked any listening deity that we were making this journey in the early summer, avoiding the snow that would fall heavily in this area, so there was no tramping through the cold, wet stuff. What there was instead was rain, never-ending drizzle that turned the ground into chilly, clingy muck that stuck in our tack and our clothes.

And the _fog._ It closed in around us with hardly a swirl to mark our passing, and for awhile we had to tie our horses in a line so as not to lose a man. It muffled and distorted noises until the clearing of the throat seemed as though it came from far away, perhaps an enemy's signal to attack, and the cry of a bird from a mile off sounded eerily close.

Lancelot and Gawain traded quips about the weather the first day, making the boys laugh quietly from beneath their oilskins, which disturbed us scouts when we tried to listen as Brandelis told us to, but heard only the throaty chuckle of forty knights.

There were no incidents with the woads – native Britons – during the three days it took to reach Hadrian's Wall, traveling at a brisk pace. They lived to the north, above the wall, Brandelis told us. We wouldn't be seeing them, much less fighting them, for months yet. He continued our education in the art of scouting.

Unfortunately, as we learned we also had to listen to the others moaning and complaining about the fog, the rain, how much their asses hurt… though they'd been riding a beaten path and so far had avoided the thousands and thousands of damned _trees_ that we had to push through and duck under and maneuver around while still ahorse.

Tristan and I, although still a little leery of each other, had nevertheless broken ground and devised several ways to make them _really_ hurt.

Artorius recalled us near the end of the third day and we joined up at the front of the line. We crested a final hill and it was suddenly spread out before us, a great wall that stretched as far as the eye could see. We stopped as one, without even noticing Artorius' hand signal – a raised hand, which meant _Wait for Further Instructions_. Brandelis had taught us some of the more basic ones already.

Directly below our position was the fort – high, well-fortified walls and heavy wooden gates with metal braces. Men in heavy plate armor paced the ramparts, scarlet capes flaring out behind them and identifying them as Roman military. Within the fort, smoke from a dozen chimneys rose, unhindered by wind or rain now that both had passed. The weak autumn sunlight illuminated peasants laboring in the fields on the south side of the wall.

Artorius extended two fingers on his raised hand and angled them forward – we started down the hill at a deliberate pace. A shout went up from the wall and we saw a man raise a glass to his eye to better identify us. Glare from the sun reflected off the brass tube and winked merrily at us.

A red flag appeared over the battlements and made its journey, back and forth four times, indicating the arrival of the Commander of the Fort. Arthur had Huddan raise a flag of our own, white, and with it we signaled our acknowledgement, back and forth, and then straight up into parade rest. I resolved to learn this language of flags.

Dirty, grimy, and tired as were, we must have presented quite a sight to this well-organized village as we rode through, looking surly and throwing out black looks like indulgent aunties throw candy. Those selfsame peasants abandoned their work without fear of reprisal and lined the road to stare at us, the young with excitement, and the old with grim faces. They must have seen several groups just like us pass through and pass away, and we were just one more such band to them.

Those great gates were heaved open by four powerful fellows, and we were heralded by trumpeting from the three stately men on either side of our pitiful column. I put on my best damn-your-eyes expression and laid it all around when a whisper started up and I just knew they were whispering about me.

I was about to turn around and gallop out the gates and point Simargl's nose to the southeast when Lancelot leaned over and said in my ear, "Welcome home."

* * *

We were shown to our quarters. There were far too many as our group was the smallest so far, but Artorius planned to give the entire second barracks building to the villagers who had large families, or to those who were boarding with other families.

It looked as though this border safe-haven was rapidly expanding. As a result, a good many of us had to double up, but few had a problem with this. Those who did were told to secure a room for themselves. No sense in stirring up unnecessary trouble when it could be avoided, I supposed.

I was, of course, alone in my room, and that was the way I liked it. The room itself was bare except for a bed frame covered with a mattress, a small chest at the foot of the bed, a shaving mirror on the wall, and a simple armor stand and weapons rack in one corner.

There was a narrow window across from the door that was set deep into the wall, and this was where I went first. Our barracks were on the second floor above the stables, so I had a fair view of the small town, and the practice yards as well.

I could see dummies set up, ready to be hacked at with swords and all manner of sharp objects, a line of archery targets, a packed dirt sparring ring, and a rack of pikes and javelins for the Roman regulars. I decided to go down at first opportunity to get a closer look – I wanted to know if there was a place to practice with my _kontos_.

I dropped my saddlebags on the floor with a thump and opened the chest, but one look at my grubby, damp belongings discouraged me from packing anything away. Instead, I opened the bags and pulled out one of the most useful purchases I was able to make before we left Portus Itius – a completely waterproof bag, in which I had packed a black tunic and breeches I'd gotten from a place in the seaside town.

I quickly shed my wet leathers and the sodden red clothing before unwrapping the cloth that bound my breasts. I wrapped myself in the horse blanket I'd brought up with me, vigorously rubbing color back into my frozen, pruned limbs with the woven cloth.

Then on with the scrap of cloth (also black) I'd procured for a breastband, pinning it snugly around my chest and slipping the soft, loose tunic over my head. I sighed in pleasure at the feel of the fabric that was both warm and blessedly dry against my still-cool skin.

The breeches fit tightly, but I ignored it and tucked the cuffs into my shiny new boots. I cinched my belt over my hips and lightly armed myself – _akinakes_ and two quiet knives, one in my belt and the other in my boot.

I hung the leathers on the armor stand – I made a mental note to look into obtaining proper armor and a helm very soon.

There was a knock on the door.

"Lady," the voice sounded muffled through the door.

"Come," I said.

A head popped in and the young squire's eyes widened. He flushed and looked away. Alright, maybe the breeches didn't have to be _quite_ so tight.

The boy recovered and told me, "Lord Arthur requests your presence in the hall. I'm to show you the way, if you please." His accent was sharp and pronounced.

"One moment?" At his nod, I dashed over to the mirror. Not bad, I reflected, but my wet hair still straggled in my eyes and so I plaited some of it and secured it with strips of my red cloth – a concession for my grief, if you will.

Eying my wet clothing, which was currently making a puddle on the floor, I scooped it up and laid it out on the window sill in hopes it might dry by morning.

Satisfied, I took myself out of the room and followed the squire. When we reached the door to the hall, I heard the rumble of men's voices inside. I hesitated, looked up at the Sarmatian standard hanging over the door, and took a deep breath.

Chin up, head high, I pushed open the doors and stepped into Artorius' domain, and my new life.

* * *

"Harder, ladies, put yer backs intae it!"

We looked at the large black man drilling us with undisguised loathing. It had been three days of constant drill, running laps and lunging and working our bodies to the max.

"When will it end?" I asked Bersules, who stood next to me, panting. He smiled grimly in agreement and lunged again, slamming his fist into the dummy that his partner held. Our tormenter, Quintus Dexius Marcellus – who had the sharpest ears of anyone I'd ever met – seemed to cross the distance between us with one leap.

"What was that, girl?" he roared. I flinched and cased my eyes, staring straight ahead – which was currently at the level of his broad chest. Military discipline was drummed into us on the very first day.

When I said nothing, he leaned down and narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Would you like to share that with the rest of us, Your Highness?"

I boiled with rage and knew that my eyes were flashing. I stared up at him without blinking; something that I know made most people uneasy.

"I said, when will it end, sir!" I barked out the last word. Marrok, a cocky bastard and a favorite of our company, learned the proper address the hard way. His black eye still pained him, but it served a purpose – no one had forgotten the lesson.

"Do you want it to end? You can go sit over there and have a drink and rest, if you like."

He sounded remarkably rational and sympathetic and I had to admit, that sounded awfully good at present.

Then his voice suddenly hardened again.

"But when you're out on patrol or on a mission, you'll find yourself unable to fight, unable to run, unable to be anything but helpless! You'll get yourself killed, your brothers-in-arms killed, and you'll save the enemy a hell of a lot of trouble! Go ahead, give up, and go back to your dresses and your cooking and your doting family! You want to know when it ends? It never ends, Sarmatian! It'll end when you're dead!"

I could see his rationale at first, but as soon as he mentioned my family, red rage obscured my vision. I snapped my fist out to punch him hard in the stomach, but he easily knocked my fist aside and belted me one that threw me backward.

"That's more like it," he said, but I didn't pay it any mind while I picked myself off the ground. He turned to go and I let out a yell of fury as I lunged forward, tackling him. He, of course, didn't budge and within a moment I found my face pressed up against the dirt and my cheek smarting where it was scraped raw.

A crushing heaviness on my back told me he'd sat on me and I flailed and shrieked wordlessly, thrashing in an attempt to get at him but I couldn't, I couldn't.

I think I said something like, "You thrice-damned bastard, don't you say a word about my family, you filthy, scheming, arrogant son-of-a-bitch, I'll see you dead if you do, and then-" I think I went on like this for quite awhile, cursing him to the lowest depths of hell and such, before I calmed down enough for him to let me up.

When he finally did, I stood and brushed myself off and looked down at my boots. I could feel his gaze on me stronger than all of the other eyes directed my way, and I looked up and he was frowning. "Your anger is your weakness, girl. It's not a defense; it's a weapon. _Use _it." Then he nodded rather bemusedly and said, "You've got spirit, by God. You'll do."

There was a moment where I wasn't sure what to do or say, but then his head snapped around to berate Rumo mercilessly for his poor form and weak punches, and I believe he mentioned Ru's mother and a hog at one point, but after my episode it was clear to everyone that this abuse was only poking and prodding to better us and not to make enemies.

I was surprised to find that I could grow to like this man.

* * *

_Six months later…_

_Why, _why_ didn't I run away when I had the chance?_ I berated myself. I could have been warm, I could have been well-fed and well-rested. But no, I had to choose this pitiful existence.

I peered out from under the hood of my cloak, but the fog made it a futile effort. The heavy flakes of snow cut through the thick stuff and it swirled continuously around us, revealing sudden patches of darkness in the tricky gloom.

If we'd been allowed proper arrows, we'd be shooting at these patches and taking down our own people. I could hear Quintus' voice despite his absence. _You have to stop being so damn jittery and _trust_ each other!_

_I trust them_, a little voice whined in my head. _Sure, _my more cynical side persisted. _You trust them to watch their own backs and nothing more. Can't expect more than that._

_Oh, cut it out, girl, you're acting insane._

We weren't on a mission – not yet. Instead we were in the middle of one of those real-life midnight "ambushes" that Quintus was so fond of.

He thundered through our section of the barracks, shouting, "Wake up, yeh lousy scoundrels, haul yer asses outta yer soft, warm beds and let's get some _real_ work done!"

We all grumbled but turn out with all haste, because we knew by then what was coming if we didn't. None of us fancied starting an ambush cold, sopping wet, and hungry – we preferred to save that for later in the ride.

The worst part about these ambushes, though, is that while sometimes we were "attacked" or "attacking", often nothing happened at all and we fell exhausted but unhurt into our beds for a few hours of sleep before Quintus bellowed, "UP AND OUT!"

At first the nights for these seemed to be picked randomly. Usually it was during the night, especially the first few months, until we learned to always have our armor ready, our weapons at hand, and our clothes within reach before we go to sleep and at all times. I was the example used for this lesson.

I caught on fairly quickly, realizing that the ambushes were always on the change of the moon phase. On full moons, we'd go out at night, except for the third, which was during the daytime. New moons were nighttime every other month, and 1st and 3rd quarter were always day, while half-moons were night.

It was a tricky schedule, and I'm not sure how I figured it out; I just sat down one day after training and with trial and error as my only guide, worked my way through our previous ambushes. With my theory established, I proved it right the next day (a 3rd quarter moon) when we were called to duty.

I began to prepare for those in advance, which worked well for me until it backfired when he suddenly sprung a surprise foray on us, and I was the only one who _wasn't_ ready. I remember my humiliation in avid detail. Quintus had looked hard at me as I stumbled down the stairs, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

There had been a moment of silence, and then he roared, "Lookie 'ere, lads, it's the little princess come to join us! Did yeh enjoy your sleep, princess? I do so 'ope yeh didn't 'ave a rude awakening." I had cowered by Simargl's stall, shame welling up inside me.

All mockery wiped from his face, he had given me a stern look and said, "Laziness will get you killed, but keeping information to yourself will get us _all_ killed, and the innocents around us, besides. Is that what you want?" I shook my head miserably.

"What do you have to say for yourself? Speak up, girl!"

I had straightened and given the popular, intransient military reply: "There's no excuse, sir."

He nodded, satisfied. "See that it doesn't happen again." And that was the end of it.

I had turned to Simargl to start preparing him when Quintus turned around. "And leave your horse; you're on foot today."

I winced, remembering how I had gaped after him, and how much my muscles hurt after that long night of trekking through the wilderness. But like all of his lessons, it stuck.

Now we were in the woods somewhere southeast of Badon Hill. As usual, Tristan, Brehus, Carradas, and I were scouting while the others huddled wretchedly. I could hear their sleepy mumbles through the trees, and I could imagine what they were saying, having heard it countless times before.

"_Bloody weather,"_ Lancelot would say.

"_I swear, the only thing this damned isle has more of is the damned trees."_ This from Sagremour, another gloomy one.

"_Cheer up, lads, at least we're not dead yet."_ Balai could be optimistic in a gale on a sinking ship, with no lifeboat and no land in sight, I swear it's true.

Then I heard a noise that was _not_ from our fellow knights, and I hissed to Brehus. The sound of the rain masked my signal from the "enemy" (I doubted even one of our own men could have discerned it) but like Tristan and Carradas, Brehus was trained the same as I and knew exactly what to listen for. He immediately tensed. I sensed his presence shifting to cover my back, as I watched his.

The whistle of an arrow in flight was short-lived and I heard a sharp _crack_. Whipping around in my saddle, I saw Brehus with his sword out, and two halves of a blunt-tipped arrow lying on the ground next to him.

_I have to find out how he does that,_ I thought.

We moved as one, kicking our horses into a canter – fast enough to present less of a target and to reach our destination quickly, but not so fast that we couldn't dodge the oncoming branches that were the biggest threat to a horseman in the woodlands.

Just before we broke cover and skidded out onto the trail, I whistled shrilly to warn them that we were friendly. Artorius and the rest calmed their skittish mounts and I saw several putting up their bows after the "Friendly" call.

"Don't put those away yet, my lads, we've trouble behind – ah!" I cried out and grabbed my arm. The padded arrow had fallen to the ground, leaving only a puff of red chalk on the back of my shoulder, but it hurt like hell. Those blunted arrows, designed with a wide, flat surface to spread out the force of impact, may not have been deadly but they were _painful_.

My sword arm hung numbly by my side and I knew I wasn't allowed to use it for the rest of the game – providing I was even able. Ru and Marrok hustled me off between them, me being the "injured" one.

"Take cover!" Artorius called, cool and in control. I envied him for his ability to keep his head in a heated situation. "Archers to the fore, fire at will. Swords, spears to the rear, prepare for combat."

The archers loosed three volleys of their doctored arrows before the "enemy" retreated, leaving about fifteen "dead" and carrying off five or six "wounded". I marveled; that was some fine shooting on our part. There were only fifty or sixty to begin with.

"All casualties to the center. Mind the flanks. Archers to the rear, pick your targets carefully, and do try to avoid shooting our own men, if you would. Swords, spears, to the fore. They're going to charge."

While his knights hurried to comply, I took stock. Next to me, young Galahad had a streak of red across his arm that marked his "injury", where an arrow had grazed him. Had they not been fixed, it would have been a very painful wound, not deadly but crippling in a fight.

Huddan sported a large puff of chalk on his stomach. This one was green, signaling a crossbow bolt, which could punch through armor easily. He was "dead", and was slumped over on his horse's neck and he appeared to be sleeping.

Then he cracked open an eye, saw me watching him, and winked good-naturedly. I grinned – I always liked him – and turned my attention to the other casualties, Itaz and Calogrenant, two boys I didn't know very well but who were talking and completely ignoring the fact that one was supposed to be playing dead and the other ought to have been incapacitated.

Sure enough, as Arthur predicted, they began to charge. We heard the yells before we could see them through the gloom under the trees. Our forces came together with the clanking of metal and the heavy thwacks of wooden practice weapons connecting with leather armor. We "injured" were shunted to the rear, near the archers.

If we hadn't been there, somewhat removed from the din of the fight, I would have missed the first horn call.

"What was that?" I hissed to Huddan, who had sat up and was suddenly alert.

"I don't know, but-" The horn blew again, a breathy, ethereal sound that was much louder this time. When the opposition heard it, they underwent a complete change.

No longer were they the wild, disorganized mass of individual fighters; instead they went still as a unit. Silence descended on the clearing and we heard a growing roar.

The leader of our previous "enemy" began to shout out orders as the unhorsed found their mounts again and organized chaos reigned.

"Sarmatians to the center, _NOW!_" I heard a familiar bellow, and almost without thinking I followed Quintus' order as I had for the past six months. "You five, hurry it _UP!_" The Ethiopian galloped out to meet us and walloped our horses on the hindquarters with his sword.

We made all haste to get to the group of Sarmatians and Roman skirmishers, still growing as stragglers came in. I was relieved to see that our fellow scouts, Tristan and Carradas, had made it back unharmed.

"You shall relinquish command to me for the time being," I heard Quintus tell Artorius. "Don't argue. You are not prepared to handle this yet." His voice and expression softened, something I had never seen them do before.

"I promised your father I would do all in my power to keep you safe, and Pelagius extracted that same oath from me. You will have your day, young Arthur."

The man left his charge and Artorius looked up. I quickly looked away. It wouldn't do for him to know that I had witnessed his disgrace. Blasted male pride, and all that.

They came out of the trees like demons, letting loose with wild cries and flailing arms. Their weapons were stone and wood and bone all wrapped with strips of hide, as primitive as they came and all the more deadly when underestimated.

They wore little, hardly covering what needed to be covered, despite the bitter cold. What they did wear was fur-lined and bound tightly around them, leaving nothing to be caught or pulled.

And every inch of their exposed skin was painted blue.

I saw a flash of something when they crashed into our Roman protectors. Blonde hair. _Long_ blonde hair. We'd been warned that there would be savage women fighting, but to see it was an altogether different matter.

Just as that realization came to me, I saw a woad up close for the first time. This one had been lucky so far, and managed to reach the group of boys huddled in the middle. I drew my sword and slashed at him, laying open his chest.

I looked in horror at what I'd done, but he was lost in the mass of fighting and there was no time, no time to think. Only to act, and I signaled Simargl with my knees. My faithful mount wasn't so faithful as he disregarded my command and instead kicked out behind me.

When I looked back to see why, I'm grateful he ignored me. A woad with a long hook, designed to yank unsuspecting riders such as I from their saddles, lay moaning on the ground. Simargl stepped backward, crushing his head in one go.

"You're a vicious horse," I said to him affectionately.

The woad wouldn't have succeeded anyway, because I was using my Sarmatian saddle, with a high front and back to prevent such a fate from befalling me, but I was relieved nonetheless. Thanks to my horse and my gear, my feet remained firmly in my stirrups and I had not yet been unhorsed.

But this didn't help me when a big man with thick arms reached around my waist, trapping my sword arm while at the same time hauling me away from my horse. I heard a cry as the dear beast bit one of them, but my struggles were in vain and I lost sight of Simargl.

Something glanced off the side of my helm, doing little damage but knocking it off my head. My customary braids fell down over my face, while wisps of the loose hair beneath them darkened my vision.

The man holding me spun me around, raising his sword. I saw his grinning blue face and bushy, wild red beard for only a moment before his expression turned to one of sheer surprise and we both looked down. Two arrows had punched through him, and the heads shone wetly in the early dawn.

I laughed in relief. Only a powerful Sarmatian bow at point blank range could have cut into him so easily. Down he went, and I saw my sword and helm and put the one on my head and grasped the other in my hand and-

"Isolde!" I saw a hand reach down. Instinctively I grabbed it as the horse thundered past. Though my shoulder screamed with the effort and the sudden strain, in a moment I was up on the horse, grasping _someone_ around the middle.

That someone turned around and I saw it was Carradas and grinned.

I thumped him on the shoulder. "You devil, did you time it out or were you waiting for him to gut me?" I shouted in his ear over the screams of the dying.

"Didn't look like he was after your guts, just that foolish head of yours. Where's your horse?"

"Don't know, I lost him after I was grabbed."

He turned his head and looked at me incredulously. A woad grabbed his leg and I slashed at the offending hand mercilessly. There was a cry of pain and he fell away.

"You mean you spent all that time teaching your brute Simargl all those whistles and signals for nothing? Use your brain, girl!"

I ducked my head sheepishly and nodded, forgetting that he couldn't see the action.

"Right, I forgot about that." Without further warning, I pursed my lips and blew, letting out the shrillest whistle I could. My savior grabbed his ears.

"Dammit, vixen, what did I tell you about doing that! Are you trying to make me deaf? Keep your obstinate side for the woads. Now go on, find your damn horse."

He was right, of course, and I scanned the surrounding area but I couldn't see him – _there_ he was, nipping and biting without discrimination, which I figured was something I probably ought to discourage. But I was so happy to see him that I launched myself from my position behind Carradas with eyes only for my horse.

I heard a shout from him but ignored it, ducking under blows and slashing angrily at the blue people. Try to take my horse away from me, will you? I don't think so.

One got right up to me and stepped on my sword before I could pull it up out of the woad I'd wounded. The force tore the weapon from my hand and I yanked out my _akinakes_ and buried it hilt-deep in his stomach.

He fell on me and I hit the ground hard, unable to roll with him on top of me. I could feel the wetness of his blood soaking through my leather armor and with his weight pressing me down I couldn't breathe. I panicked. With a growl of desperation, I shoved his body up and off.

The poor bastard lay there gibbering, mouth moving soundlessly. I knelt at his side and I knew I was crying but _I don't care, I _don't.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I kept whispering, staring at his face until his mouth stopped moving and just gaped, with wide eyes that I couldn't help but see were a brilliant blue in a handsome young face. I was muttering senseless things now, and my gaze traveled down to where his hands were trying to put his innards back in and _I didn't do this, I couldn't, I didn't!_

"All right now, you're fine, up now," I heard, and hands lifted me up onto the back of my dear, dear Simargl.

I hardly noticed that the fighting had stopped, but I just kept seeing the face of that poor boy I'd killed, his cornflower eyes staring up at the sky, at _me_.

They put us in a string and we all slumped in our saddles, in various states of exhaustion, many with tears slipping silently down their cheeks. I saw several fall in and out of sleep as we limp slowly back to the fort, and I envied them their escape.

"Poor children," a grizzled veteran looked at us with pity in his eyes. I feigned sleep but I felt his eyes on my bloody, tear-streaked face. "They shouldn't have to see this."

Another murmured sorrowfully, "They keep sending them younger and younger. Soon they'll be mere babes training in the practice courts and riding out on missions. It's not _right_."

"That lad Arthur held his own today. He's seen some bloodshed already. After all, he grew up here, couldn't have avoided it if he tried. But he'll be good for these boys." Again that strange sensation of being watched and I knew they were looking at me.

"What were they thinking, sending a girl to fight? She's hardly older than my own daughter." _Ah,_ I thought numbly. _So that's the way of it. Don't you worry, no soft Roman girl will be joining us anytime soon. You can marry her off to that fine boy like you want to and never have to worry._

I wasn't making any sense now, not even in my own head, and I nodded off into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

I remember reaching the Wall and hearing demands and enquiries, and shouts for a physician, quick, this man's in pain! I remember the feel of the reins slipping from my hand and the assurance that someone will take care of the beast, don't you worry – OW! 'Twon't be me, for sure. But I can't for the life of me put pictures to these sounds, except for a glimpse of hay and then darkness.

* * *

My eyes felt gritty and tears surfaced at the bright light turning the inside of my eyelids into a patchwork of color. When I opened them I had to squint against the shaft of sunlight pooling around me.

I groggily turned my head and saw that I was in my own room. The details of the previous night – or was it the night before – inevitably came flooding into my mind, throwing every detail into sharp relief.

"Aye, milord, he did," I heard. It was the first indication I had that I wasn't alone, and I kept my face turned toward the wall so as not to give myself away.

"Casualties?" Arthur's young voice was heavy with weariness.

"Twenty-four wounded, six of them Sarmatians. Five dead. Decimus Brutus, Oppius Labeo, Sextus Asellio, Publius Vetus, and…" The speaker trailed off.

I perceived Arthur's dread in his strained tone. "And? That was only four, Jols. Who else?" I braced myself. Anyone could tell it was one of ours.

Jols continued reluctantly. "And Huddan, one of your Sarmatians."

_Huddan is dead, too._ Something broke inside me. Not entirely shattered, just a little chip, like a blemish on a teacup, but something that changes it forever. That was the sort of feeling I had. I'd _liked_ Huddan.

There was a defeated sigh. I took a chance and moved my head, looking at my commander and his squire. Neither noticed me. The older boy was slumped down in the chair drawn up next to my bed, head in hands. From where I lay I could see that there was pain on Arthur's face – the pain of guilt and responsibility.

_Yes,_ I thought. _I am far too familiar with that kind of pain._

He looked up at the other boy and I could see that his eyes were bloodshot. I felt a pang of sympathy. "I shouldn't have pushed them. This was to be their final 'ambush' and I took them farther than I'd intended, beyond the area we swept beforehand, to see how they handled the change in plans. And now one of my knights is dead. Did I do wrong?"

He looked beseechingly at Jols, who reddened and fidgeted at being addressed so familiarly. He always did rather idolize Arthur.

"I'm not one to say, milord," said the dear boy. I think if he'd answered the wrong way, Arthur might have just crumpled up and lost himself.

I paused and wondered why I was suddenly so comfortable when I thought about Arthur. Why I was suddenly calling him by the name I'd sworn off of. But then I remembered his face, flooded with a myriad of emotions and capped by a mop of curly black hair that was swept back from the eyes of an old soul, looking down at me crouched in the woad's blood, and saying, "All right now, you're fine, up now." It was _Arthur._

I heard Jols' footsteps retreating and I reached out to touch Arthur's hand. He jumped and looked down at me in shock, as though he'd quite forgotten I was there at all.

"Couldn't have known," I rasped. "You couldn't have known, you were only trying to do your job, and that's what kept the rest of us alive. If you hadn't pushed us, we'd all be dead. You've got to let it go and forgive yourself."

"And you do that so easily, do you?" He snapped, and I drew my hand back, narrowing my eyes at him.

"What does that mean?" I sat up in my bed and stared at him.

He looked contrite. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's been a very long day, and-"

"Not that, you fool. What do you mean I don't forgive myself?" He bristled.

"I know the reason you're here, and why you hate Romans like you do-" I cut him off again.

"So Tristan told. I shouldn't have expected him to keep it a secret. But _dammit!_" I pounded my thigh with a fist. "He _should_ have! He's the bloody silent scout, not the snitch! He _told_, I _trusted_ him, I-" This time it was his turn to cut me off.

"Tristan knows?" He asked with genuine surprise. I stopped my tirade and blinked at him. Then something he'd said clicked in my mind.

"Just what do you know about the reason I hate the Romans?" I asked, and my voice is dangerously low.

"I know that it was the Romans who killed your family." In a moment I had my knife pressed against his neck. He swallowed but showed no other outward sign of surprise. He continued.

"They returned to Rome after the deed was done – several deeds, in fact. Yours wasn't the only clan erased. The report was forwarded to Portus Itius to be delivered to Marcus Tullius upon his arrival, as he was the senior officer appointed to collect the new Sarmatian recruits. A ranking officer intercepted the message and it was read aloud at a meeting of the legion officers. I was there, as well, because of my status as your commanding officer." He paused.

"Go on," My voice quavered.

"When you arrived only days later and I heard that you'd been conscripted after your clan was killed by the Huns, I knew immediately that they were victims of the Romans who were sent to decimate your people and start a war between the Huns and Sarmatians. Afterward, they hoped to strike the victors down while they were still weak from the fight."

"If I'd known, I would have tried to stop it. I may only be a junior officer, but my father had influence, and I might have been able to do _something_; for that I am truly sorry."

"I don't need your pity, Arthur," I said, somewhat more gently. The knife had long since dropped from his throat.

To my surprise, he snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. It isn't only that you're one of my knights; in fact, that has nothing to do with it. It was plain _wrong_. I will go to any lengths to preserve justice for every man, woman, and child that I come upon in this life. I would have tried for them as well. I would have tried for all of them." And for reasons I couldn't understand, there were tears standing in his eyes.

After a time, he spoke again.

"I know it's cold comfort, for someone once offered me the same, but I do know how you feel." He said.

"And how could you possibly know that?"

"When I was seven, the woads killed my father in battle. He was a commander of the Sarmatian knights of his time, as I am now. His death – it shattered my mother, Igraine, and left me listless and drifting. Three years later my mother was killed in an attack on our village. I told you that first night that she was once a woad. She was murdered by her own people."

"I watched her die, heard her screaming inside the burning house before it collapsed on her. That was the night I took up my father's sword, swearing vengeance against Merlin and his blue demons, because I couldn't save her. It's so hard to forgive yourself for being helpless."

"After that, I was put into the charge of Pelagius and lived at his estate until I joined the Roman army, requesting my father's post. Pelagius went back to Rome, and I came here, with my old friend and protector."

"Quintus." I guessed. He nodded.

"Quin was my rock. He kept me from drowning in despair after Mother passed. He made me eat when I just wanted to curl up and die."

"So, you see, I do have an idea of how it feels to have your world stolen away. Now I am on my way to collecting the debt Merlin owes me."

I thought about what he'd said before. Was I being a hypocrite, urging him to forgive himself and put aside the blame for Huddan's death? I had the sinking feeling that I might've been.

My voice broke when I said, "There's only one difference that matters, though. You couldn't have helped, you were only a child, and innocent. I was fifteen when my family was slaughtered, and I could have warned them. I _am_ guilty, Arthur."

"I'll tell you something you don't know. _I_ was our patrol, our protection. I shirked my duty and they weren't warned. Instead, they were cut down and betrayed by Rome without a chance to defend themselves, but the biggest betrayal was mine."

"It was Romans who betrayed them, Isolde, not Rome," Arthur corrected me fiercely. "That is not something Rome would do. Rome stands for freedom, for equality. It would not have turned on you. Men can fail. Ideals cannot."

"There's a part of me that will never like anything remotely Roman, Arthur. It's hard for me to see anything but Rome when I look at you, whatever your character, whatever your ideals." I growled in frustration. "This would be so much easier if you weren't _Roman_."

A light came into his eyes, and he looked at me anew. He stretched out his hand, bridging the gap between us, and said, "Hello, I am Arthur, your new commander and good friend."

I took the hint and played along. "Hello, I'm Isolde of Sarmatia. I'm pleased to meet you – I think. Arthur – would that be Artorius Castus of Rome?"

He straightened, acting indignant. "Certainly not. I am Arthur… of Britain." I could tell how much it cost him to say this, and I felt my heart warm to him.

I nodded wisely. "Ah, a Briton. Well, sir, I believe you are correct. We might just make a fine pair." And I put my hand in his.

We stayed like that for quite awhile. Then, "Erm… if you're too busy we can come back later." I turned to see Lancelot, Gawain, Carradas, Brehus, Saros, Bersules, and Marrok standing in the doorway. Behind them I could just make out Ru and Drudwyn in the hall.

I was the first to break the silence. "No, you twits, get in here. I swear you've all got one-track minds." While they were distracted I surreptitiously wiped my eyes on the sheet. I noticed Arthur doing the same with the back of his hand and I smiled at him. It was a small thing, but it went such a long way.

* * *

We went down to join the rest of our brothers-in-arms in the stables. Arthur stopped at the door as if to let us have our moment to ourselves, but I pushed him through and he joined us in our grief.

I watched as he went around the group, offering comfort as best he could, with a firm hand on the shoulder and a quiet word. I decided I liked man he was turning out to be. There was something promising and huge about him, and I knew that he was destined for great things.

But when he'd made his rounds, he came to stand by me, and I welcomed his company. It was a far cry from two days earlier when I avoided him at all costs, and we earned some curious looks from the rest of them.

Huddan was to be burned that night in the old way, for although Arthur would've liked to bury him in the Christian fashion, we were yet pagans and moreover, the ground was frozen now that it was January. We couldn't dig a grave for him in any case.

We ringed his pyre in a circle two or three deep. It was a simple arrangement; a body wrapped in white cloth lay in a shallow hollow in the ground – as deep as we could dig it, which was only about four inches. Brush was heaped around the bundle.

Arthur solemnly accepted a burning torch from Itaz, Huddan's closest friend. He leaned down to thrust the flame into the brush.

"This is your fault, Roman!" There came a cry just before the pyre was lit. Arthur hesitated. The crowd of knights pulled away from the angry speaker. It was Zanticus, as I should have known. He pointed an accusatory finger at our commander. It was obvious he had already partaken of the drink, and the men hummed with anger.

"_Unsavory bastard."_

"_Disturbing Huddan's peace, he is."_

"_Ought to show him what respect is, then he'll think twice before he maligns a pyre-burning with his malcontent."_

"_He's heaping his troubles on a departing soul. Bloody coward!"_

They began to converge on Zanticus, who now started to back away. His attempt at spreading discord amongst us had backfired.

_Why do _I _always have to be the sensible one?_ I wondered as I beat them to the disharmonious boy, conveniently forgetting that I was not, nor had I ever been anything of the kind. I looked him in the eye and deliberately turned my back on him, shaking my head as if in disappointment, like he wasn't worth my time, or Huddan's.

The others saw me do this and grumbled but followed suit, returning their attention to Arthur and our fallen comrade. I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing we needed was another dead knight, or another enemy.

With a last apologetic glance at Huddan's earthly remains, Arthur dragged the flame around the edge of the dry branches. The smallest twigs caught, the flame running up their lengths to the cloth. We watched as our friend and comrade went up in a blaze.

We didn't stay long. Itaz was the last to leave his friend's side, but we waited, some of us, and clapped him on the shoulder and took him into our midst.

Back in my room, I stared out my open window at the lingering glow and remembered the way Huddan had looked over at me and winked in the small hours of the new day – was it only this morning? – so vibrant and full of life. It struck me as morbidly ironic that he was only playing dead this morning and now he was dead for real. He was alive before and now he was just… dead. Gone. And tomorrow we would cast his ashes into the wind, and he'd become a mere memory, as we all would one day.

With these thoughts running rampant in my mind, I sighed and closed the shutters against the bitter wind.

* * *

Tonight we were going to get rip-roaring drunk, completely inebriated. So far I'd avoided the tavern, particularly at night when the boys lost their inhibitions, as well as their sense of self-preservation when they would attempt to take advantage of my generous nature and find that I wasn't quite as generous as they believed.

As I planned to lose myself tonight, I'd alleviated myself of all weapons but a single knife, so I wouldn't accidentally – or intentionally – kill anyone, or by some chance fall on my sword.

When I strode into the tavern I got a hearty cheer from my lads. Strangely, they'd become my errant flock of sheep with only me to keep them steady, and in my mind I had come to refer to them as "mine". I'm sure that without a woman's influence they'd all have killed each other within days of meeting. _They need me so much more than they think,_ I gloated.

"Vixen," Ru latched onto my empty weapons belt and dragged me onto his lap, leaning for a kiss. I placed two fingers on his lips and gently pushed him away.

"That sort of thing won't be even remotely in the picture until I've had a drink, Ru," I said, and wrinkled my nose at the strong reek of alcohol permeating his breath. "Several drinks, in fact."

I grabbed his tankard and downed it. It's the weakest stuff to be found, but still it sets a nice fire in my belly and I leaned over and snagged Lancelot's as well.

"Thanks very much," I said. He scowled at me but cheered up quickly when a red-headed girl came to serve him and was pulled onto his own lap. She laughed at him and rolled her eyes, clearly used to his antics.

"Vanora," he slurred to her chest. "Will you marry me? We can 'ave a dushen children an' a big housh wi' _no_ Romansh 'tall." He leered at a passing wench and then returned his attention to Vanora's front.

Amazingly, he didn't get slapped _or_ married, and I saw Bors bristle (apparently he'd fancied her for quite some time) when Vanora patted Lance on the cheek like a child and slipped nimbly off his lap.

"Sorry, Lance, but you're liable to break my poor heart and leave me with those dozen children while you go off with the newest wench, so I'll not try your bed, but I _will_ get you another ale, if you wish."

Lancelot made a noise that the girl took to be assent and she went off to get him his drink, easily avoiding the reaching hands.

I looked down at Ru's hands still holding me tightly around the waist and sighed in annoyance as one wandered higher than I liked. I smiled sweetly at him and said, "Dear Rumo, remove your hand or I'll do so for you."

He looked down and despite his thoroughly intoxicated state he noticed the prick of my knife against his fingers and gingerly lifted his hands. I slid off his lap and patted his cheek like I'd seen Vanora do, planting a quick kiss on the other side of his face.

"Thanks," I sat down next to Drudwyn, who'd already taken a lover and wasn't the womanizing type, and so presented no threat to me. If I was going to start frequenting this place on a regular basis, I'd do well to learn tricks to avert a man's attentions, I thought, because most of these boys would chase anything with breasts. I decided the girl Vanora would be a good place to start.

The Sarmatians occupied most of the inner portion of the tavern, while Romans were scattered on the outskirts of the foreign group. A few Sarmatians idly tossed dice with them.

For the most part, we knights had formed three groups, determined mostly by age. Despite that, most of us had several friends in the other circles. The older knights had been earmarked for the taking when the last Roman sweep came through Sarmatia eight years prior to our conscription. Some, like Bors and Dagonet, came from the same village. As I understood it, Bors was a relation of Lancelot – a cousin, I thought. Zanticus was largely left alone, though I couldn't say whether this was forced isolation or if it was voluntary.

The younger knights had made a beeline for each other from the very first. We thought they'd formed some kind of secret brotherhood amongst themselves, and as long as they didn't annoy the rest of us, we were glad for them. There weren't so many of them – only Askhkadar (Kandak's younger brother), Johfrit, Dynadin, Mabon, Palomydes, Galeron, Respendial, and Gavarium. Young Galahad had somehow found himself ostracized from the band of youngsters, perhaps because the boy spent much more time with Gawain than with the lads his own age, and so had permanently attached himself to our crowd, most of whom came from outlying tribes to the north or east. There were few Iazyges, and many Roxolani and Alanians.

Until his death, Huddan had been a part of our group as well. The thought that we would never see his laughing face at our table again struck me fast and hard. When the busty redhead came around again with tankards balanced skillfully in her hands, I grabbed my own and stuck my nose in the foam and gulped at it, trying to forget the cheerful look on Huddan's face, the look that was fixed in my head.

Then that image was replaced by the blue eyes of the boy I killed. That poor boy, who was hardly the age of my own knights and best friends. He was there and now he was dead. Alive and dead. Life and death. Hope and dread. The words made a sick rhyme in my head.

The room spun slowly around me as I started in on another pint of the strong stuff. This was… what, my fifth? Sixth? I giggled, not noticing the stares this elicited from the other knights. Did it matter?

I was vaguely surprised when I shoved the wench off Lancelot's lap and climbed on top of him myself – a sure sign my senses had gone – and twined his curls around my fingers. He quickly got over his bafflement and began to look interested.

"'Sn't thish nice?" I slurred, hiccupping. I giggled again, and burped.

I laughed hysterically at that, and soon it wasn't tears of laughter I was crying, and I found myself sobbing into Lancelot's tunic. He looked helplessly at the others, who shrugged.

"What's going on?" I heard a voice ask, and I looked up.

"Isolde here's tryin' to drown her sorrows," Bors answered. "Same's the rest uv us."

"Trishtan!" I wailed, nearly falling off Lancelot's lap in the process. "'Ts'all my fault. I din't mean for 'im to die, or any of 'em. I'm shorry, I really am. Y'shouldn't like me, none'o'you. I'm a dishgrace, 'n'ish all my fault. I'm gonna kill ev'ry lasht one uv 'em, an' I don' deserve t'live."

I looked at the others suddenly, tears shining in my eyes and snot running from my nose. "Y'don't know wot I di-" hiccup "did, do you?" I said in a stage whisper. "I b-"

A warm hand gently closed over my mouth and I blinked up at Tristan and stuck my tongue out, licking his hand. It was something my brother used to do when I tried to quiet him in the same way.

Tristan stared at me in fascinated disgust, thunderstruck. His eyebrows had disappeared under his fringe.

"I believe you've had quite enough," he said, removing his hand and reaching for my tankard.

"'Ey!" I protested loudly. "Thash _my_ ale! Getcher own, y'swine! Besides, I was jusht 'bout to tell 'em how I-" the hand clapped back over my mouth and I trailed off.

"That's supposed to be a secret, remember?" He reminded me gently, looking quite bemused at this point.

"Mfft!" I mumbled and he took his hand away so as to better hear whatever foolishness was in my head.

"Right," I said in a whisper that was heard easily at the nearest table of Romans, who were also staring at me and laughing.

"Sorry, ladsh, ish a secret. Can't tell you." I grabbed my stomach suddenly. "Ohh… don't feel good, Lansh." Lancelot, looking alarmed, tried to push me away before what he knew was coming, but it was too late. He looked disgustedly at the puddle of vomit around his boots.

Strong, lean arms lifted me up and I snuggled into Tristan's chest. I inhaled and said, "You shmell good, Trishtan," before passing out in his grasp, thereby sparing myself from further public humiliation.

* * *

Brilliant white light stabbed into my eyes, reaching behind them to gouge out my brain. I squinted against the harsh sun and saw that someone had turned my room around to face the east, pulled back the cloth that covered the window, and opened the shutters, letting cold air and sunshine pour over me. I thought idly that I had to stop waking up like this, with a pounding headache and light in my eyes.

"Put it out," I moaned.

"I can do a great many things, but I can't put out the sun."

"Go 'way, Tristan. And put my room back, I like it facing west," I whined, still befuddled.

"I would, but your room is still in full view of every sunset. You're in my room."

My eyes snapped open and I shot upright in the bed that wasn't mine to find out that one, I was only in my breastband and trousers, and two, sitting up so fast was _not_ a good idea.

"Kill me now, please, and put me out of my misery. Tristan, what exactly did we do last night?" I asked, not particularly eager to know the answer. I glared at him when he chuckled.

"You don't remember our amazing night of sensual, passionate lovemaking? You wound me."

I murdered him with my eyes. "That is not something Tristan would say. Since when did you become Lancelot?"

He stiffened almost imperceptibly. "Oh, but you haven't heard the best part yet," he said, and there was a definite chill in his response.

"I'm sure you remember up to the point where you almost regaled everyone with your somewhat secret story, and then vomited all over Lancelot's boots before fainting in my arms, yes?" I nodded miserably.

"Soon after that, we returned to your room where you came to and tried to undress yourself – while I was present. I managed to stop you from removing your breeches, but your tunic was ripped beyond immediate repair. Then I had to hold onto you before you flung your foolish self out of your window with a sheet over your shoulders. I believe you thought you had wings."

"No more… please stop." I picked up my pillow and pressed my burning face into it. Maybe I'd get lucky and smother myself.

"As it was, you presented quite a sight to the respectable townsfolk strolling below. You made quite an impression on several of them, and by now you're quite a legend."

"Perhaps you'd like to hear how you threw yourself at Arthur when he came in to make sure you were all right, making some rather suggestive comments. When he told me to look after you, you called me a 'big, bad wolf' and referred to our brave, blushing commander as an 'old coot'. I can't see either resemblance, myself."

"Finally I had to bring you here to be sure you didn't hurt yourself. And don't worry about them getting the wrong impression about you staying in my room; they were sure to hear you howling at the moon all night long. All in all, a most entertaining evening, don't you think?"

I stayed silent, afraid to look at him.

He said nothing more, instead leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. The silence finally became too much for me and I mumbled into my pillow.

"I can't understand you," he said. I took the pillow from my mouth, still not meeting his eyes.

"Thank you for watching out for me, Tristan," I whispered ashamedly, my voice low. "I'm sorry I'm such a bother."

He sighed audibly and tilted my head up with a finger under my chin. I stared determinedly at the hollow at the base of his throat.

"You aren't a bother, little vixen. You're worth every minute." Before I could ask what he meant his mouth was on mine, caressing my lips slowly and sweetly. He pulled away for a moment. I looked up at him in amazement. I opened my mouth to ask what… well, what something. But then he brought his lips back to mine, savagely plundering and tasting and demanding more, and I quite forgot whatever it was I'd been about to say..

I unconsciously slid my arms around his neck, wrapping my fingers up in his hair and drawing him closer. His tongue sought entrance and instinctively I granted it, reveling in the things he was making me feel. I felt his hand stroke down my bare side and shivered.

The gasping and grabbing had an air of desperation in it and I knew I should've stopped it, but it felt so good, so right…

A thump from the hall saw us leaping apart, me rolling over to face the wall and Tristan going to the window and looking out over the town. I could hear his harsh breathing as he tried to reassert control over himself and I grinned, steadying my own heartbeat.

The door opened and I heard Gawain say, "Tristan, have you seen Isolde? We can't find her any-oh." I lay still as though asleep until I heard him snort and say, "Tristan, you dog. Well, when she wakes up, tell her that-" But by this time I had sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest and glaring at Gawain.

"I'm up, I'm up. Ow." I said, holding my head, and I didn't have to pretend it hurt, as it was setting up a heavy throb in retribution for everything I had put it through the night before. I saw Gawain, too, was cradling his head in his hands.

"Come on, sunshine, time to go get some breakfast. That is, if you and Tristan are finished." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. I glared at Tristan. So much for not getting the wrong idea.

I blushed and protested hotly. "I was a little drunk last night, and Arthur made Tristan keep me from – from throwing myself out a window or something. Ask him yourself. Nothing happened." I felt myself get redder as I thought that _something_ definitely _had_ happened. I looked irritably at Tristan and wondered why he wasn't denying it as well.

"Right. Well, Lance says to come have breakfast and then cook up some of that hangover remedy you have. Says it works wonders." I looked at his hopeful face and sighed.

"Oh, fine. Turn around, I have to get dressed."

I saw him grin. "So you _are_ naked!" He said, no doubt oblivious to how idiotic he sounded.

"I – erm – tried to undress myself last night. Tristan had to stop me but… well, I got almost halfway, alright? Now turn around, or I won't make you anything and you'll just have to wallow in your misery for the rest of the morning."

I was pleased to see him turn immediately to face the door. Tristan silently tossed me one of his shirts, which was too large but I shrugged it on anyway – I only had to make it to my room to get another tunic, after all. I was acutely aware of his gaze intent on my bare back.

"I'm decent," I said. "You can turn around now."

Gawain stifled his guffaw at the too-big shirt dwarfing my small frame and I scowled in Tristan's direction. Gawain noticed this and raised an eyebrow.

"Tristan, you're sure nothing happened between you two last night?" He joked.

"Of course something happened," Tristan said with a straight face. I gasped, outraged. The bastard! He wouldn't tell… would he?

Gawain's eyes widened. "Do tell," he said.

I was nearly speechless with rage, while the small part of me that was even remotely reasonable tried to tell the rest of me that this was just giving him what he wanted, and that was to get me riled up, but I didn't listen.

"What – I don't – _nothing_-" I choked out.

"Come, now, Isolde, why deny it? He obviously knows already. There's no reason to keep it a secret any longer. After all, once it's born they'll all know."

I thought I might pop. The heat radiated from my face and I was sure I was turning purple.

Gawain, on the other hand, had gone very red and was having trouble standing. "Born? _Born? _Bloody hell! You – you're – you're not – excuse me, I'll be – be outside." And he disappeared out the door, his uproarious laughter perfectly audible through the wooden walls.

If it's true that if you want something enough you'll achieve it, I wonder why the floor didn't just swallow me up right there.

_Well, _I thought, _at least he had the decency not to laugh in my face_.

I was just about to stalk out after the little rat when I spotted Tristan facing away from me and leaning against the windowsill, tiny tremors of mirth shaking his shoulders. I glared furiously at him.

"And here I thought you said they wouldn't get the wrong idea. Something about me howling at the moon all night long."

"Oh, I made that part up," was the strangled response, "but the rest was all true." I had the sudden urge to put my foot in his backside – his rather hard, well-muscled backside…

My glower became a feral grin as I hit upon a devious idea.

I walked over to him on silent feet, reaching around his waist and pressing my body against his. I stood on tiptoe to nuzzle his neck and breathed a few words into his ear.

"Tristan," I growled, and I heard him swallow hard, a small fracture in his iron composure. "I'll get you back for that. Just you wait." And as I pulled away I let my hand trail across his stomach and my fingertips brushed his thigh.

He whipped around before I closed the door and I gave him a smouldering look through my lashes.

Out in the hall, I looked at Gawain, who'd calmed down enough to avoid another glare from me. Apparently he figured out that he'd been had. I barked out a gruff, "Let's go," as I breezed past.

He jogged to catch up to me. "By the way," he said. "Nice tattoos."

"You rogue!" I cried. "Get, cur! Shoo!" He ran, sniggering manically. Laughing, I followed.

* * *

_MUSE…_

On the other side of the door, Tristan slumped against the wall, weak-kneed.

"If you knew just what you did to me, girl," he muttered, though he got the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that she knew _exactly_ what she did to him. The scout turned to look out the window once again. The horse trough caught his eye, the ice from the previous night newly broken, and he strode out the door to go down to it.

Cold water was beginning to sound like a _very_ good idea.

* * *

End Chapter.

Originally I didn't intend to put that last scene in, but I was brainstorming in class and had an idea, so I wrote a dust-bunny, and I just had to add it.

Oh, I just love knowing what might be happening before you do. Enjoy!

**Ribhinn**

Review.


	4. IV

_"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."__

* * *

**Peace of Mind** _

_ISOLDE…_

We had several days to recover from the battle. Arthur took one of these days to closet himself with Quintus. When they finally emerged, Arthur looked determined, while our training master wore a resigned look on his face.

An old comrade of Quintus', Servius Macer, was visiting from a nearby legion – Aquila's Fourth, by the eagle on his armor – not too friendly with our own Lupus' Twenty-fifth, the Wolf Legion, so the legion itself had stayed behind.

It was by eavesdropping on a conversation between the two friends that we learned the reason for the Ethiopian's strange meeting with our commander.

"The boy wants to do _what?_" Servius exclaimed.

"Aye," said Quintus wryly. "That's just what I said. He thinks that by starting their missions early, they'll have more of a chance once woad season starts up. Be more acclimated to their strategies, like."

"You don't think they're ready, do you? By God, they've only been here… what, a few months!"

"Of course they aren't ready," the black man scoffed, "who is ever ready for the blue demons? But Serv… this is the most promising group of fighters I've _ever_ trained. They really care about each other – and you know how important that is in an active unit. That girl is bringing them together like nothing I've ever seen." I felt my cheeks warm from the blatant praise, regardless of whether or not it was said to my face.

"And that Lancelot is a natural leader, and a born swordsman," I saw the aforementioned male puff up his chest with pride. Men – they were all the same, no matter what their age, "if only he could just get over himself enough to use both skills properly. Right now his parts are where his brains are, and little enough sense he had to begin with."

I clapped a hand over his mouth before he could protest – loudly – and when I did so I half-expected a repeat of my show of immaturity from a few nights before.

"And you agreed to this?" Servius sounded incredulous.

Quintus chuckled. "I hardly had a choice. The boy is as impossible to argue with as his father was."

There was the sound of a clap on the back. "In that case, you're fighting a losing battle, my friend – that man was absolutely incorrigible!" The two friends shared a laugh and we drew back.

"What were you doing?" Palomydes asked warily. He had been walking by when we emerged from the bushes under Quintus' window, Lancelot a little red from our ribbing, and Ru and I poking fun at him and laughing at his discomfort.

"You'll find out soon enough," I cackled with glee.

I looped my arms through that of each of my friends and skipped merrily toward the stable and the hayloft we Sarmatians had made into our own to tell them all the news, dragging Ru and Lance with me.

_Finally_, I thought, _no more training, no more useless whacking with wooden swords – we're going to be knights!

* * *

_

There was a feeling of suppressed excitement in the hall that night. When Arthur came in and sat down at his usual place at the head of the table – something that was still a sore point with Zanticus – he looked around at our eager faces suspiciously.

"All right," he said a trifle wearily, "who squealed?"

Feeling a little juvenile, I blushed and sheepishly raised my hand. Arthur arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching as he tried to hold a severe expression.

I looked at Ru, and he shrugged and put up his hand as well, less bashfully than I. We both looked at Lancelot, and the others followed our gaze. A smile was playing around Arthur's mouth as Lance shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Finally he cracked under the pressure. "Oh alright," he said, "me too." He glared at the two of us (who were both beaming like idiots) in annoyance.

Arthur sat back in his chair, now wearing a full-blown grin. "Then I shall put any doubts you might have to rest. Beginning today, we are _all_ full knights, and we'll be leaving tomorrow on our first mission."

The hall rang with happy cheers, mine among them. Perhaps Arthur would see what a difference this responsibility would make in their confidence, and more importantly, in their fighting ability. Pride could do wonders for a person.

Our commander waited until the men had quieted and said, "This does _not_ mean that we are finished training. Every morning that we are here you will report to Quintus, until the full year is up." Moans of dread filled the room. "In the afternoons we will ride out on patrols in shifts. The evenings are yours to do with as you wish, and there will be no more ambushes."

"However, in addition… after the noon meal every day, you will learn reading and writing in Latin, and mathematics, and the very basics of the woad language. As for me… I will be learning Sarmatian, if one of you would be willing to oblige."

Shouts of approval could be heard. I looked on, impressed. With that one sentence, he had managed to differentiate himself from the image of Romans that we all held, and belittle his image in the eyes of other Romans by asking to be taught by one of us rather than the men of his own kind who could do almost as well, thus raising himself in our estimation. At the same time, he'd bound them to him with ties much stronger than any rope or contract ever could.

One day, I realized, we would all happily lay down our lives for him. One day, we would love him.

* * *

Arthur had forbidden us from getting drunk that night, so there was none of the hard stuff for us, only mead and ale, and that only in moderation, Arthur had instructed us, or he'd leave us in the stocks while the rest of them went off to have grand adventures, and we'd be busted down to squire for the rest of our service.

Since none of us wanted that, none of us drank ourselves into oblivion. Few were even likely to have a head from the drink in the morning. Bors might, but that wouldn't be from the alcohol he'd consumed; rather, it would be from the blow Vanora had dealt him with her tray when he became a little too friendly, laying him out on the floor for the night.

And so it was that we were all present and sober when we rode out the gates the next morning. We halted mid-step, all forty-one of us, when Arthur raised his hand. We'd all had ample time to learn the signals since our arrival at the Wall.

Arthur's second-in-command – he who held down the fortress in his superior's absence – cried the salute, slapping his chest with a closed fist. In return, Arthur pressed his own fist against the breastplate of his armor.

The signal to continue was unneeded, as we read him easily and complied with the unspoken command before ever it was uttered. We trotted, then cantered, and when we'd cleared the walls of the fort, progressed into a full gallop.

I reveled in the feel of the cold wind on my face, stinging my eyes but making me feel alert to my very fingertips. I saw the same blissfully aware look on Carradas' face and knew we were ready for this. The way I felt, I was ready for anything.

We pounded away from the Wall, taking the road south until we reached the eastern road. The day was clear and bright as we thundered eastward toward the snowcapped mountains and into the rising sun.

* * *

Our first mission was almost anticlimactic after the excitement of battle. There were no run-ins with woads, we met with no Romans except for the one we were to escort, and even then he stayed in his carriage and did not speak to us, and likewise we ignored him. He only spoke with Arthur, and that was done with an air of a superior talking to his underling. At one point he asked Arthur,

"Why do you allow the whore to travel with your knights? Surely you find her a… distraction." It took great restraint from all of us not to gut him. Arthur had tightened his lips and looked straight ahead. I suspected he'd felt the same urge.

Because of this comment, and because his holier-than-thou manner irked us, we conspired to make his journey as uncomfortable as possible. Wagon wheels rattled loose, the carriage door came unhinged to let the cold in, his rich food spoiled… These mishaps continued until a quiet word from Arthur stopped us, but it was great fun while it lasted, nonetheless.

We saw neither town nor fortress in these places; the likes of us weren't welcome with respectable folk – meaning Romans – and while it wasn't verbalized, we took the unspoken hint. Arthur didn't seem to notice their coldness toward us, but he was naïve in many ways, the dear boy.

Eight days after we'd set out, we clattered into the courtyard at Badon Hill, making loud and crude jokes at Lancelot's expense – always Lancelot; he was so easy to rile. We would pick on Galahad for the same quality, but the young boy's confidence was easily damaged, whereas Lancelot could take it in stride… after he had some time to cool off.

Arthur had quickly realized that bringing forty-some warriors on a mission was something like overkill; it was simply more than was necessary, and as we'd amply displayed on the journey, forty-some bored men and one bored girl can cook up a world of trouble.

So when we were settled in again, he called us to the hall and told us that we wouldn't be going out all at once for future missions – at least for missions that are a simple matter of escorting personages and such. He'd rotate us all according to our usual roles. Two of us regular scouts would accompany every group that left the Wall.

Then he went through the entire group and made up a list that he showed to me when I came to summon him to dinner. I scanned it quickly and handed it back to him.

"You think they're actually going to keep out of trouble if you only take half of them each mission?" I asked.

He shrugged and smirked as he set aside the tablet. "Of course not; that would be too much to ask for, wouldn't it? But they'll only be able to wreak half as much havoc in one place."

"Don't count on it," I said, regarding him with a certain degree of amusement. "They're damned sneaky delinquents. They'd probably redouble their efforts just to show that they could."

He grimaced. "I suppose it was an idle hope. But empty or not, it's worth a try."

"Sure, anything's worth a try. I'll just try to keep them from burning down the fort while you're gone. Khors only knows what they'll do when we're both out. Probably play Tutyr to Falvara's charge."

Arthur frowned. "Who are these people? I've heard of Khors, your sun god, and I know your horse is named for your god of war, but Tutyr? Falvara? I don't have an inkling of what you're talking about when you use their names. Frankly, it baffles me."

I leaned back in my chair, tipping the front legs off the floor. "Well… the tale goes that 'Tutyr has beaten out one Falvara's eye that last did not see the wolves creeping to herds'. Falvara is the patron of cattle. To play Tutyr to Falvara's charge is, in essence, a reference to a wolf stalking the herd, or a hunter pursuing his prey. Basically, they'll make trouble."

My commander rested his chin in his hand, obviously absorbing this information to be immortalized in his memory. No knowledge was ever wasted with this man.

"And the others?"

"Come now, Arthur, if I listed them all we'd be here all night!" I chuckled, but he looked at me with that earnest, serious look on his face and I knew it was important to him, so I let the chair settle with a dull _thunk!_ "Alright."

"Khors is the main figure in our religion. He is god of the sun, and is known to the Iazyges, like Beucan and Zanticus, as Jizzu. Horses were offered to him in sacrifice, but that custom has all but died out now, finished when the Romans conquered our people going on two hundred years past. Jázon is his counterpart, the moon god."

"Zhihar is the mother goddess, who we usually refer to as the Living Zhihar. You've probably heard that term used before. Then there is Sad, the god of the underworld. Sad's domain is what the Greeks and ancient Romans called Hades. You Christians call it hell."

"Don-Bettyr is the god and lord of water; Wacilla, the thunder god. Papay isgod of wind and clear skies,borne by Tabiti, who isthesun goddess and one of the two Great Goddesses."

"Simargl is the god of war, and a favorite of most warriors, but it is Wasgergi who is patron of soldiers and contracts. Zanticus," I spat on the floor, earning a disapproving glance from Arthur, "was one of our kings, and he signed our people over into slavery, swearing by Wasgergi that his cavalry and every son of the Sarmatian people henceforth would serve Rome for 15 years."

"Our own Zanticus was named after him, thoughwho knows why any self-respecting Sarmatian would want their child to carry the name of that filthy traitor. It's likely why he's so bitter and sullen all the time, the fickle bastard."

I trail off. That was really all he needed to know, and I wasn't sure how he'd take that comment about Zanticus. Was I being too familiar? Overstepping the bounds of the truce we'd so recently made? I couldn't tell from his measured expression, but he said nothing against it and I took that to be a good sign.

His thoughtful silence began to bore me. I stood. "It's time for dinner. Be sure to join us before you wear out your brain. We need your genius for better and more important things, like provoking Lancelot and taunting Bors."

He nodded and said, "Go on, I'll be there in a moment."

I left him to his own devices.

* * *

That night I joined the boys at the tavern again.

"Isolde!" Came the enthusiastic welcome. Probably looking forward to another good show at my expense, the sods. But there would be no more of those. I had learned.

"Vanora!" I heard Bors shout. "Bring somethin' for 'Solde to drink, now, and then come over here and sit your pretty self on my lap, woman!" It seemed he was attempting to take a leaf from Lancelot's book, and it was equally apparent that it wasn't working. The look Vanora shot him was nothing less than glacial. Obviously his advances were taking him nowhere but backwards.

But the redhead came over with a tankard nevertheless. When she set it in front of me, I remembered my thoughts of two weeks before and caught her sleeve as she drew her arm back.

She looked down at me in confusion. "Wha-"

"Can I talk to you sometime?" I asked, somewhat shyly. This was, after all, the first female I'd spoken to since Gaia and Lucia in Portus Itius seven months earlier, and the first woman since we'd left the plains of my homeland.

She considered me and I realized that she was really only two or three years older than me. "Tomorrow, 'ere, an hour 'fore midday," she said, without implication or inflection to her words.

I nodded and let go the rough cotton of her dress.

"Drink, Isolde!" roared Gawain. "Drink and be merry, for we are alive and whole and in good conpamy. Er… compary. Shomtin' like tha'." I joined in the uproarious laughter his drunken blunder inspired, lifting my mug to my lips.

* * *

I woke up looking into the night-pot in the corner of my room as my stomach protested against the copious amount of ale and wine I'd consumed.

_StupidstupidstupidstupidstupidSTUPID!_ I berated myself.

When I finished heaving, I rocked back on my heels and wiped my mouth miserably.

"Ohh…" I swore in a burst of embarrassment and anger at myself. _I've learned…right. Damned ignorant, is what I am._

"I will _never_ drink again." I moaned.

"Rather unlikely, as you seem to enjoy it so."

I knew who it was before I even turned to look.

"Go '_way_, Tristan…" I could almost sense the laughter in his voice.

"Many have made that vow, and very few ever succeed."

_Go away go away go away go away…_

"I was just going down to the tavern when I heard the noise. You need a new hobby, Isolde. Drinking until you're either unconscious or evicted doesn't seem to be doing you much good."

Sudden anger flared. "Get out." I said coldly. "Out!"

I heard nothing. Had he even moved?

I spun around and flung my knife at the door. The door that was already closed, shutting me in with only my murderous thoughts for company.

* * *

Vanora was bent over a tub of steaming wash water, scrubbing at the greasy dishes and tankards left over from the rowdy night before when I came through the door, still sticky with sweat from the morning's exertions. Quin had gone hard on us today, cheerfully shouting vulgar insults and goading us into exhaustion. The man was insane!

Without looking up, she said, "Yeh take those dishes out to the front room an' put 'em behind the bar an' I'll be right out." Her British accent was prominent in the way she pronounced her _o_s and _r_s, neglecting the customary roll of a native or fluent Latin speaker.

I did as she said and just as I set the last upside down on the shelf she came out, drying her hands with a cloth.

"What d'yeh want?" She asked. I had the feeling she had about as much use for me as I had for her.

"Just to learn how to keep the boys from getting a hold on me nights. I watched you avoid them easily last night. I figure it's a useful skill to learn." She frowned.

"I work here. I've only meself to count on or to run this place, as the other girls are little 'elp, carousing with the patrons all night long. I cain't be bothered to waste me time teachin' a green hand."

"But of course I wouldn't ask you to neglect your work while you taught me," I said, somewhat surprised by the thought. It had seemed a given to me, but I supposed she was accustomed to less chivalrous types.

Vanora considered this. "All right. I'll give yeh some basics now, as I've a little free time. Come over 'ere."

I went. She took a tray loaded with four empty tankards and went to a table. "Now, yeh lean way intae th' group like this…"

* * *

Half an hour later I left the tavern, whistling cheerfully. Vanora had not only given me what I'd asked for, but a few defensive tricks besides, which she'd picked up over the past few years and which I'd never thought of; no doubt they were used to fend off the more persistent, violent Romans. _Painful_ tricks. I grinned. While I might scorn that woman and the way she lived, she did have a wickedly sadistic sense of humor, I had to give her that.

She was a shrewd businesswoman, too, I reflected. In return for the knowledge of men and their ways that she'd gained in her short years, she'd managed to extract a promise of my help with the night custom for the next week. Of course, she also said that any girl serving in her tavern would wear a proper dress, not one wearing trousers like a jumped-up hussy.

I'd bristled when she said this, but I _had_ been the one who came to her, so I gritted my teeth and bore it. After all, it wasn't like I hadn't heard worse insults. I was, however, rather proud of how I'd managed my affront at being compared to a whore.

But the dress issue also meant I'd have to actually look like a woman, something that Vanora had charged one of her girls with accomplishing, so in addition to the serving, I was getting lady lessons as well. What good that would do me on the battlefield, I couldn't imagine, but when I mentioned this to Vanora, the young woman huffed impatiently and said, "Oh, I'm sure you'll find _some_ use for it."

So it was that I could be found in the room of Regan, a fluttering, giggling girl a year older than me, with strict instructions from Vanora to obey her or suffer the consequences.

I didn't have any particular affection for the woman, but she was frightening sometimes. Especially the times when she was threatening me with a terrible fate while holding a meat cleaver in hand.

As it was our first day back, Arthur had postponed our first lessons until the following day, so I had plenty of time on my hands to go and turn into a woman. But if this cursed girl didn't stop her bouncing and chattering, I was going to run her through and damn the consequences.

"Coo, miss, what did you do to your hair?" She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the offending stuff, cut short to different lengths and plaited into many tiny braids that mixed with the free hair. I frowned. There was nothing wrong with my hair.

Since my arrival at the Wall, I'd kept my hair shorter, only to my shoulder blades. Having it long seemed like too much work, but after watching Vanora manage hers with brisk efficiency despite her working lifestyle, I thought maybe long hair wasn't so bad.

She tutted. "We'll have to do something about that."

* * *

"Mmph!" I gurgled as my head was forced into the basin of water for the last time. Suds floated free and clung to the porcelain sides. I tried to keep from snorting them up my nose as Regan let me lift my wet hair out of the soapy water. She may have been flighty and small, but she was strong.

Deftly she wrapped the dripping strands in a drying cloth, tucking the end in and making me look foolish beyond belief, I thought, with it wrapped 'round my head like a turban.

Whilst we waited for the cloth to draw out the excess water, she stood me up and fitted me out with a gown of baby blue. The color wasn't my favorite, nor did it go particularly well with any of my assets, except perhaps my hair, but it was soft and comfortable, and it was the only one that was both suitably decent and the right size.

Regan sat me in the chair again and unwrapped my hair. By then the little wisps had dried and they curled slightly, catching the light from the dying sun and lending my face a healthy, golden glow.

I wasn't pretty. I knew that, although living with forty-odd men had rather restricted my ability to pass judgment on such things. My face was too broad, my cheekbones too prominent, my eyebrows too thick, and my nose a little crooked where I'd broken it four months earlier in a training session. My skin was rough and my face tanned and speckled with sun spots. My hands were calloused and strong, my arms and legs thick with muscle. I was too tall and my shoulders were too broad, and I was all angles and no curves.

My only saving grace was my hair, golden blonde, and my eyes, grey like a coming storm. Staring into thelooking glassnow, with Regan fussing around me, I decided they were my favorite feature.

I swore when she began to comb my hair and the brush caught in the knots that still abounded in the thick stuff. Then she started working through the tangles, and for the first time I relaxed and let her work. It felt nice to have someone else take the reins, and the feel of the brush running through my rapidly drying hair was heavenly. I hadn't had my hair brushed since… no, don't think of that, I cautioned myself.

"This is kohl," she explained as she closed in on me with a stick of something dark, which I eyed with suspicion, "to enhance your eyes." _Oh,_ I thought, _well that's not so bad._ And it wasn't.

I could tell she was really warming to her task from the disapproving, scandalized girl she'd been when she first saw the poor material she had to work with. I could see it by the way her face lit up as she explained what she was doing. I tuned out her voice in my state of relaxation.

"Ouch!" This time I let out a string of curses that brought a flush to her cheeks, although at the moment I was too busy holding my eye and trying to hold back the stinging tears that rose to the surface to take real notice.

"What are you doing!" I exclaimed, still covering my eye protectively. I looked at her in alarm as she pulled my hand away and brought the metal thing in her hand towards my face again.

"Oh, no, you don't." I tried to jump out of my chair but she held me down with a hand on my shoulder.

"Calm yerself. Ye can't go out to play the part o' a lady wi' those bushy eyebrows. I 'ave orders to make yeh beautiful, an' ye're _not_ goin' tae ruin the effect wi' yer whinin'." Why couldn't she have been the yielding, compliant young woman I first believed her to be?

I glared murderously at her but let her continue.

"It helps if you frown when I pull," she said, which really wasn't a hard thing for me to do as I wasglowering thunderously evenbefore she told me that. And I wasn't about to tell her, but she was right.

* * *

Newly primped, prodded, and powdered, I fingered the bracelets Regan had lent me as I was ushered down the stairs. The appearance she'd given me wasn't precisely refined, but it somehow managed to be pretty and fairly practical at the same time.

I managed to make it down the stairs without tripping on the hem of the unfamiliar garment, although it was close a few times. My slippered feet padded lightly on the wooden floor. The coordination this required made me think of my sword dances, and the mindless ease with which I moved when I danced them.

Thinking of this helped, and I found it was easier than the tentative half-steps I'd been taking before. In fact, I moved so mindlessly that I almost bumped into Attaces, who was leaning on the doorsill, facing the open tavern. I squeaked.

I tried to flee like a frightened deer when he started to turn around, but Regan caught me and steadied me and put her hands on my shoulders. She looked up at me with laughter in her eyes, and yes, some pride too. After all, she _had_ been the one who made me look like this. She eyed me sternly and reassuringly.

"Ye're beautiful, an' confident, an' a free woman in yer own right, wi' no man t'tell ye otherwise."

For a moment I was startled out of my panic. "That was downright profound, Regan. Thank you."

She shrugged. "Don't thank me. It's what Vanora says to all'uv us on our first night entertainin'. Go." Before I could protest, she spun me around and propelled me out into the open.

Ru noticed me first, the randy lad. "What ho, Van, you've got a new wench and you didn't – oh…" His eyes grew very round. The rest of the knights did a prime impression of a school of landed fish, and I straightened, a trifle miffed. Was it so hard to believe that I might want to dress up every once in awhile?

"What's the matter, boys, haven't you ever seen a girl before?" Apparently not. Or perhaps it was just my extraordinary looks and blatant charm that had them gaping soundlessly. That must've been it.

"Isolde?"Saros croaked. It was amazing he could still talk with his mouth hanging open like that. "You're – you're a girl!" Honestly, men are _so_ oblivious sometimes.

I gave him a withering glance and snapped, "Of course I am. What did you expect, a female monkey?"

Brehus chuckled. "Aye, that's our Isolde, all right."

Saros flushed. "Well, of course you're a girl, I just meant… you're actually dressed like one. Why are you wearing a dress?"

He seemed to have regained proper use of his tongue.

"As you so astutely pointed out, I am a girl, and so I'm entitled to a little girlishness every once in awhile. Now," I adopted the expression I'd practiced, a mask of bored indifference. "Do you want a drink or shall I go serve the next table?"

The mention of alcohol reminded them of their initial intentions when they first came in that night; to drink until their eyes crossed.

I fetched tankards enough for the one table and doled them out among my already weaving friends and comrades. As they quaffed them like water, I thought it was unfortunate that when the gods decided to create men, they didn't gift them with common sense. Although that term was entirely unsuitable; as far as I could tell, sense was only _common_ amongst the females of the species.

The rest of the night went smoothly for the most part. When my services were no longer needed, Vanora allowed me to go and have some fun with my "handsome bucks" as she called them. I didn't think of them as either mine or as male deer, and I told her so (entirely ignoring her knowing look when I didn't deny their good looks), but I took her point and rejoined the slightly calmer boys.

The night itself was marked by little more than a few leering glances sent my way and some snide comments about how 'a savage bitch like me' really shouldn't be allowed to dress like decent folk.

When it looked like things might come to blows among the hotheads in both companies, I put some of that feminine charm to use, and my bullyboys backed down.

Overall, though, it had been a success. When I lay in my bed at last, slightly tipsy but conscious (a definite improvement on my past experiences with alcohol), I reflected on the fact that while boys had a lot of things easier than the opposite sex, I rather liked being a girl. It meant I could keep my male counterparts off-balance more, and at the same time keep them under control.

I smiled into the dark, remembering the way Bors had come up to me, fidgeting nervously (no doubt in awe of my luminous presence) and looking almost _shy_. Of all the emotions I would not expect that boy to feel, shyness was the most prominent.

"_Isolde, can I have a word?" He asked quietly. I nodded and set the tray on the bar before following him out the back door._

_He stood uncomfortably, dying a thousand deaths under my sharp gaze until he finally spoke._

"_Well, it's like this. I – I like Vanora. A lot. I think I might even love her, if she ever decided to notice me."_

_Obviously he'd expected some sort of surprise from me. I mustered something more similar to a shocked grimace, putting a slightly pained twist between my brows. Apparently I passed inspection, though how I'll never know, because he continued unhindered._

"_But she won't even look twice at me!" he forgot his unease and paced like a caged animal, which I suppose he was. Caged by love. I nearly snorted, but caught myself in time, luckily for the fragile pride of Bors. Love? Since when was I such a poet?_

"_I've tried everything – flirting, bragging, ignoring her, following her around… I even followed Ru's advice and cried into my ale in a futile attempt at fishing for sympathy, until I realized he was having me on."_

"_I've tried being everyone – Lancelot, charming and verbose; Ru, bold and straightforward; even serious and caring like Arthur-"_

"_Did you ever try being yourself?" I asked wryly, watching him wear a furrow in the earth beneath his feet. He looked at me strangely._

"_Of course not," he said, "What I am is a killer, who slaughters men and women who just want this bloody island to themselves. What good would it do to show her that?" He looked almost as though he believed this slop._

_I put a stern and chiding note in my voice. "Bors, you aren't a killer. You are forced to kill, to protect your honor and your family, forced to become a slave to the most pompous, presumptuous people I've ever had the misfortune of meeting, but you do not kill voluntarily. A killer of the kind that you speak of _wants_ to end lives. You want to create them. You want to _save_ them."_

_I felt like an impassioned preacher, inciting someone to grasp their freedom in both hands, just as Arthur was wont to do at any hint of the underdog._

_I could see he didn't entirely believe me, so I changed tack. I wasn't cut out for this comforting business._

"_Look. If I were looking for a man," which I wasn't, "I wouldn't want someone who hides and lets others run roughshod over him on their way to take what he has his eye on. I wouldn't want a man who doesn't even _know_ what he wants. I'd be looking for a man who knew what he wanted, who would tell the object of his attention (and hopefully that would be me) that he wanted them, and then went for it and damn the consequences."_

_In a burst of sudden inspiration, I took him by the shoulders and said, "You are handsome, and confident, and a good man in your own right. In my opinion, a thing is only worth doing if you do it all with all your heart. Are you willing to do this, to pursue her? Is she worth it? And if she is, then what are you still doing here?"_

_His answering smile was enough, and he left a happier man – and he was a man – than he was when he came. Maybe I wasn't so bad at this sort of thing after all._

Without conscious thought or decision, I drifted off to sleep, and I dreamed of happiness, and of love, and of little children with Bors' chubby cheeks and Vanora's fiery hair.

And I dreamed of war.

* * *

I was peacefully eating my breakfast the next morning, quite minding my own business as the throb in my head settled into a faint aching, when Bors stormed into the hall and stopped, scanning the faces seated at the long table. When his eyes met mine, he strode rapidly toward me, and I pushed back my chair and stood to greet him.

He had barely reached me when my feet left the floor and I was being crushed as the world spun around me, _I can't breathe…_

The grinning fool set me down, and as I gasped for air, he crowed, "Isolde, you wonderful, wonderful girl, what would I do without you?" I looked at him in stupefied amazement. _You don't want me to answer that, Bors._

"Er… I know that I'm wonderful – modest, too – but… remind me why?" He just grinned all the wider and I could read it all right there in his expression. The male arrogance, his huge smile, the way his eyes glittered with smug satisfaction… the man had found himself a wench last night, and from the look on his face it had been a very good night, too.

"It worked, you brilliant, marvelous, incredible girl, and I've you to thank for it." He turned to the rest of the knights who stared at us with a certain amount of confusion and amusement in their gaze.

I realized what he was going to say a moment before he said it. I tugged at his sleeve in a fruitless attempt to shut him up.

"Isolde here is a gods-loved genius on matters of the heart, my good fellows. She's achieved the impossible and gotten Vanora to fall head-over-heels for me, despite my bumbling efforts and Lancelot's help." The aforementioned knight glared at him. "A toast! A toast to Isolde!" I glowered ferociously at him. Something large and slimy would find its way into his bed very soon.

"Sit down, you great lump," I said, pulling him down to sit on the bench and hoping no one would notice the fires burning merrily in my cheeks. "We've neither drinks nor reason to have them so early in the morning, thank the gods." My shoulders hunched almost of their own accord against the abuse I knew Bors' speech would bring down on me.

The only noise I heard was that of the door closing.

"You sadistic little rotters!" I cried. "You can't just leave me here with him! He's… he's insane! You know what he's like when he's happy, damn you!" The distant sound of laughter was their sole response.

I threw up my hands in helpless frustration and raced out of the room.

Bors' humming followed me when I stopped outside the hall. He broke into song, bellowing out the lyrics to the dirtiest ballad he knew, not seeming to care that his voice cracked and went sour on the easiest of notes. I fled.

* * *

I found them outside the stables, convulsed in wild guffaws. With my very best scowl darkening my expression, Imarched right up to the one nearest to me, which unfortunately for him happened to be Lancelot, and slapped him across the face. Hard.

He cursed. "What's wrong with you, woman!" He cried aghast, and clasped a hand over his rapidly reddening cheek.

The others had calmed down somewhat, but Ru couldn't hold it in when he saw the shocked expression on Lancelot's face. He snorted. I punched his arm, growling dangerously.

Balai, Bersules, and Carradas had the bad fortune to come upon us just then, and between chuckles Wynn managed to relate what had happened in the hall to the newcomers.

Carradas smirked. "A love doctor? Isolde?" I cast my eyes heavenward as he threw himself to his knees and put his hands together like a Christian would, looking up at me with doleful eyes. I braced myself for the inevitable.

"O wise goddess of love, please, pass on thy wisdom to this unworthy man, that I might become the king of all ravishers, the father of many children, and the receiver of many more willing wenches. Hail Isolde, the all-knowing woman of romantic ventures. Hail!" And with that he threw himself at my legs, wrapping his arms around my knees and nearly bringing me down with him.

I swatted at his reaching hands and kicked him away, caught between laughter and hot embarrassment. Laughter won out, although I dealt him a few more halfhearted blows before I let him get up again.

"If I'd known you had such a mouth on you, 'Das, I would've cut out your tongue when first I met you!" I joked.

He dusted himself off and I realized I had to crane my neck to look up at him when he was this close.

Glancing around the circle of boys, I saw that they'd _all_ grown, each of them standing at least a few inches above me. Even the younger ones were nearing my height and gaining some substance.

I smiled up at Carradas – always one of my favorites, and a good man to have in a crunch – and brushed the dirt off his shoulders. Quite unexpectedly, he leant down and kissed my cheek. I let him, and he flashed a cocky grin at me before he stepped back.

"Well, brothers, let's not stay here and dawdle. We have dummies to spear, horses to tire, and we have a madman to run us into the ground! Why do we linger?"

I rolled my eyes and the others grumbled. "Why, indeed?" I muttered to his retreating back. The comment startled a bark of amusement from Ru as we trooped off to the training grounds.

I sensed a presence watching us and looked over my shoulder. Tristan's face was nearly swallowed by the shadow of the doorway, but his eyes shone eerily, filled with something feral, even hostile. I followed his gaze to Carradas, who saw me looking his way and blew me a kiss. Strange, that. What could Carradas have done to Tristan, of all people, to make him brood so?

"Come, Isolde, don't wait for the grass to grow!" Bersules shouted, and I ran to catch up, putting Tristan and his odd moods out of my mind.

* * *

End Chapter.

Ha! Take that for a speedy update. Alright, so not _speedy_, per se…

A little more Quin here, and a little jealousy from Tristan for all of us!


	5. V

"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."

* * *

**Peace of Mind**

_ISOLDE…_

The spring and summer passed swiftly, our new duties keeping us very busy. Autumn came upon us with the familiar comfort of an old friend. We'd been recognized by the Empire as full knights in the early summer – 22 Junius – and with that distinction came our pay and our first imperial mission, not counting those requested or required by Arthur or the British-Roman powers.

Quin told us that the woads usually became particularly active in the first years of service, but so far they'd been suspiciously silent.

We rode on patrols and escorted Roman personages without a wrinkle of trouble. It was only on the imperial missions that came about once a month that the blue people crawled out of whatever holes they lived in and gave us hell. Arthur suspected they watched the fort, and attacked only when they saw a messenger bearing the Emperor's flag. The thought made us uneasy.

It puzzled and irritated Arthur to no end, and disconcerted us, but there was nothing to be done, and no reason to do it. Anything that kept us alive and well a little longer was cause for thanksgiving.

At least, we felt that way until Abeacus and Dynadin took a message to a neighboring fort and were ruthlessly cut down. Their horses followed the path and took their arrow-riddled bodies to the fort they'd been heading for, delivering the message with a bitter gift.

We knew nothing of their fate until we returned from a minor mission to find six riders waiting for us, with their pitiful burdens slung carefully across their saddlebows, dressed in linen wrappings. It took three days to sober Arthur up after we buried them.

The sudden violence of the act planted the first seeds of hatred in our most secret of souls – not against the real culprits, the Romans, but against the easy targets the woads presented. We began to build walls of stone around our hearts, protecting us from the guilt we might otherwise have felt for killing men who wanted only their country and their freedom… just as we did.

I found myself consoling the others after a battle with an independent group of woad women. Isdernus, Abeacus' best friend, had coldly and ruthlessly lopped off the head of the woman who led them and speared the horrid, gory thing on a pike as a warning to other woads.

He cut out the eyes and tongue and buried them, and scalped her as was the old custom. Arthur had watched him with sickened eyes, unable to do anything but watch the butchery. I was left to gather the younger ones and steer the older group towards their horses.

It was a restrained assembly of knights who came through the gates that day. Isdernus rode alone.

The incident had made me realize that fighting women would present a problem for them. Many of the men had gained serious injuries in that battle because they'd worried too much about the gender of their opponent, and not enough about the weapons in her hands.

That was when I stopped sparring with the majority of the other knights, sticking to Roman soldiers or inanimate objects that couldn't fight back to keep my skills sharp. I knew the men had pictured my face, among others, in place of that of the woad women as they died, and I was certain that this was encouraged by sparring against them, and so I didn't. Either way, they didn't protest.

My sword dances were my main form of training now, and these I did away from the others, or in the early mornings. Just now I was preparing to begin my dance as the sun reached long, golden fingers over the eastern mountains, lighting the crimson foliage that had yet to fall from the limbs of trees.

I'd acquired a new sword, much like my old one, but longer and slimmer and curved just slightly like the swords from the east. It was a fine backsword with an encapsulated tang, though the single edge was twice as sharp as my older, double-edged weapon. It had used up virtually all of my pay so far, but I didn't particularly mind. A good weapon was worth far more than gold, if it saved my life.

This new weapon I used with my right hand, slinging it over my right shoulder while my second sword, my old blade, was now settled over my left, with my quiver usually hanging from my belt. I was still getting used to the new arrangement, which seemed a little awkward, but I couldn't think of another way to wear all of my weapons at once, so I made do.

Now I placed _Kiji_, as I'd decided to call my new friend – meaning protector – atop my old sword and positioned my feet in the proper squares. My dances had gotten longer, more vigorous, and much more elaborate with constant practice and development.

I placed my _kontos_ to the right, perpendicular to _Kiji_. Closing my eyes and grounding myself was as easy and natural as breathing by now, and my feet began to tap out the familiar steps almost without conscious direction.

I opened my eyes again to watch my shorter blades flash as I rolled my wrists. I jumped – felt that strange pull as my will battled with gravity and inevitably lost – and landed in a half-crouch, my _akinakes_ barely scraping the dirt of the sparring ring before it was twirling again, never pausing, always confident in its deadly motion.

This dance didn't return to its initial slow pace like the old one had, and it came to a sudden halt with my _kontos_ quivering in the ground in front of me, one knife directed at the heart of my invisible opponent, and my _akinakes_ drawn back in a reverse grip for the killing blow.

A giggle made me freeze as I bent to retrieve my armaments. My eyes darted to the second floor of one of the few houses that overlooked the training grounds, where three girls sat.

They had perhaps a year or two less than I – one looked to be even younger. They giggled some more, and I yanked my _kontos _out of the earth and stalked over to the foot of the wooden stairs.

"What do you want?" I demanded snappishly. I didn't like being laughed at, especially by chits who wouldn't know haft from hilt if it bit them in the arse.

"Do the other knights do that?" The second girl asked, pointing to my crossed swords. She giggled, as if at a joke, and the youngest looked uncertain, but her jaw firmed in annoyance.

I tightened my grip on my _kontos_. I wouldn't allow these three ignorant girls to anger me. I spun on my heel and would have left, but was stopped when the youngest piped up.

"We want to learn." I turned back to them, disbelief writ across my face, and stood in front of the bold girl.

"I could spear you where you stand with this." I said quietly to her, but there was a strange note in my tone, almost wondering.

I pulled back the folds of my tunic to reveal a row of wicked, toothy knives. "And these…" I slid my boot knife out just enough to show a few inches of mirror-bright steel. "And this…"

I stopped. There was no need to go showing her all of my secrets, like the miniscule blade about the size of my pinkie hanging between my breasts, or the sheaths around my thighs.

The others were convinced I slept with my weapons – largely untrue – and called me paranoid, which I wasn't – just careful. I was the only woman warrior, and a Sarmatian at that, in a fort chock-full of men, Roman and otherwise, and that was reason enough.

There was especially no reason to give up the six sharpened pins in my hair that doubled as lock picks – Itaz appeared to have a rather shady nature, the sneaky sod, and I bullied him into teaching me how to use the picks in exchange for me keeping my mouth shut about catching him coming out of the rooms of a Roman footsoldier he disliked.

Being the keen businesswoman that I was, I also persuaded him to ply his skills whenever the imperial messengers appeared. There was no need to be careless, and none of us trusted the Romans or their precious God.

I fixed my attention back on the hopeful faces of the three girls – Khors bless, they were serious. I cocked my head to one side and considered them. The oldest was quiet, firm, and a little old for learning weaponry – they all were. The younger was fiery, determined, and obviously tired of being treated as the useless baby.

The middle girl I wasn't sure of. Her eyes shone with excitement at the idea, and that was the whole problem. She saw only the glory, I was sure, and the beauty of the dance, and no doubt the handsome, chivalrous men she might meet by learning from me.

Was I actually considering this? I believe I was.

"If I teach you – and I'm not saying I will – you shall have to agree to do everything that I say. Learning the art of weapons involves pain, and discomfort, and a strength of mind that you probably haven't had the chance to develop, living here in the cozy village as you are instead of out on the open plains of my homeland." Let them think on that for awhile.

"You'll have to wear men's clothes, like me, for most of the day – and we _will_ be practicing every day. If I waste my time training an undedicated brat, I will not be happy." My suspicions of materiality and feminism in the second girl were confirmed when she looked dismayed – or perhaps just a little apprehensive – at the mention of men's clothing. But then, well did I know the mental comfort of knowing one's place and the rules that guided it. Fear was natural when it came to stepping out of old boundaries and into a world without them.

"I have one final rule. You'll have to get permission from your parents. I don't care if they say no, or are shocked by my habits or my heritage; I will _not_ go sneaking around, teaching you sword-craft behind the backs of a bunch of Romans. I've already got enough problems with all the woads of Britain trying to kill me to have all the Romans after me, too."

The older girl, apparently the leader of the group, said, "Our parents aren't Roman, they're Britons. Well, except Neve's father, who's a soldier with the Wolves, but he's drunk half the time, and everyone knows that her mother makes the decisions where their children are concerned." Well, that made me feel a lot better about teaching them.

I harrumphed. "All right. Come over here, I'll show you the easy steps first so you can practice on your own." I was extremely disconcerted to find them all hugging me wildly.

My morning routine thoroughly disrupted, I maneuvered them through the easiest steps, and showed them stretches and exercises I knew, until the sun had risen above the rooftops and the rest of the town began to stir. Then I sent them off to clean up.

Before they left, I said, "I have patrol today, so we'll see about trousers and tunics for you afterwards. Boots, too. Meet me in the stables at two bells after supper, if your parents agree."

They scampered off, laughing and chattering gaily about the lesson. I smiled after them, remembering my own training at home.

I stopped my contemplating on that one. That line of thought would only lead to pain. This was my home now.

I saw young Nineve twirl about in the pivot I'd taught them, and my smile grew. _Careful, girl,_ I cautioned myself. _This might yet turn into a flop. You are not here to have fun._

But this didn't stop me from whistling merrily as I gathered my weapons and headed back to my room. Flop or not, I couldn't wait for evening to come.

* * *

But by the time the appointed hour rolled around, I wasn't entirely sure I hadn't made a big mistake. I'd gathered some spare clothing and had dropped it in the hay. I myself was seeking refuge in Simargl's mane, breathing in his sweaty, horsy scent. He rolled an eye at me and whickered softly.

"You're my best friend, sometimes." I murmured into the arch of his neck, and smiled as he shook his head. Animals were so simple to talk to, especially intelligent animals, which seemed to listen without judging, like my beautiful, strong, perpetually testy horse.

I turned his head and placed a kiss on his nose. I heard a small commotion at the stable doors. Giving Simargl one last pat, I stepped out and swung the door shut.

The sight that met my eyes was entirely unexpected, and I nearly fled back to the safe haven of Simargl's stall.

"Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, _no._ Not a chance in hell. No. Absolutely not." The eight girls who had just entered my domain wore pleading expressions that ranged from interested to desperate. Behind them stood a fewyoung women and some intrigued parents.

"Uh-uh. I can't – you're not going to – _no._" I said, ever my eloquent self.

Brangaine, the older girl from this morning, stepped forward with an amused glint in her eye.

"You. I should have known it would be a mistake to agree to your mad-hatted idea. Were you planning this all along? Or did you just decide to drive me barmy at the spur of the moment, on a whim?"

She smiled complacently, not ruffled at all. I hated people like that, I decided. "They just want to learn to defend themselves. You wouldn't deny them that, would you? The woads are becoming increasingly bold, and innocent Britons are being killed in their own villages."

"If they should come while you knights are away, with only the Romans to protect us, and them scant protection, too… You know we'd all be killed, or taken captive. Surely you couldn't condemn them to that fate."

Perhaps it was because she had snubbed the Romans. Perhaps it was the sincerity in her tone, or the flash of fear I saw in their eyes when she spoke of the woad attacks. But whatever it was made me turn and stare at the pile of clothing on the loose hay. I hated reasonable people.

"The gods cursed me when they gave me a conscience," I muttered irritably. "I always knew it would get me into trouble someday, but this beats all…"

I turned back to the group assembled there. Brangaine's face was split by a triumphant grin, and I had no doubt that she'd heard my comment and drawn the right conclusion.

"It won't be fun," I warned. "It most certainly won't resemble anything close to easy." Heads nodded determinedly.

"We will do it. We want to learn." She repeated the phrase Nineve had used that morning. "And if the woads come, damn if I'm going down without a fight."

That clinched it for me. I wasn't going to let those damn savages have a taste of _these_ Britons, gods witness.

I went to her and shook her hand to seal our bargain, and then turned and placed the same hand on her shoulder. Together we contemplated the garments that lay in the middle of the stable floor.

"We're going to need a lot more clothes." I said, and all laughed – was that some relief I heard? It was. There was something else, too, something that had been strangely absent until now, which made my heart float glowing to rest somewhere in the rafters high above.

Hope.

* * *

"1! 2! 4! Keep your elbow up on that block, Toby! 6! 3! 2! 5!" They followed the position numbers fairly smoothly, despite the fact that all they held were rough wooden poles.

I had decided that they were going to follow the Sarmatian custom and make their practice swords before they were allowed to so much as touch a real one, and they weren't going to make the blades until they could work the bellows.

But little did they know they weren't going to do any of these things for quite awhile. Tomorrow they would be put to chopping wood for the winter, and that would be all they did for several weeks.

The ax haft would form calluses in much the same places as a sword hilt would, and the extra weight, coupled with strange and awkward angles, would build muscle where I wanted muscle built. Besides, we needed wood, and so all worked out perfectly.

This past week had been little more than drill. They'd all learned the simplest dance, even the few men who had joined our merry band, at my insistence. Anyone older than 20 or so probably wouldn't be able to advance very far at all with the sword dances, but we practiced them daily regardless. Grace and agility were crucial.

I'd never thought of myself as a teacher of any sort, and here I was, directing a horde of eager villagers in the use of several weapons. And not only that – I'd actually found myself drawing up plans for repelling woads from the fort, which I thought was going rather too far, but which Brangaine (who had become something of a second-in-command to me) loved and wouldn't let me discard.

In fact, I felt almost as though I was the one in charge of the fort, and was forming my own army to fight for me. It didn't feel right or any such thing; rather, I just happened to… fall into the role, as it were, simply because they saw me – a foreign warrior, and a woman, no less – as a heroine. Who could be less so, I had no idea, but they seemed to have adopted me regardless.

The knights didn't know a thing about it, which was strange as it was the talk of the town and there were now about thirty grubby townsfolk gathering to practice in their training grounds every morning.

I strongly suspected Arthur was aware of it, however, and I also had the feeling that he was quite amused by the whole thing. Although I knew it must have taken a lot of guilt and worry off his mind, so somehow it didn't seem so bad.

A good many of my troops – in my mind I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that it was, in fact, what they were – were archers and nothing more, but they practiced everything but the actual swordplay alongside everyone else.

I couldn't help but feel more confident in myself now that I had a mission I could be proud of, and not one forced upon me by a rogue empire gone corrupt. I tried not to show it, to keep the others from suspecting something, because for some reason I rather liked keeping my fierce warriors a secret.

Tristan knew, of course. Why the other scout had to be so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning I'd never know. Damn his curious sleeping habits. Not that I wasn't an early-riser myself (after all, morning _was _the time we trained together every day) but even I wasn't that aware before Khors had lifted the sun above the horizon.

Of our group, one girl stood out in particular. She was good with a sword – better than good, she was a bloody natural. But strangest of all, once she'd mastered the sword fairly well I moved her onto the basics of archery, and then throwing knives, and she was just as cursed brilliant at both of those, too.

A natural swordswoman was a rare find. Someone with two such skills was even more so, a prodigy, but _three?_ Who ever heard of a girl who exceeded all logical expectations and beat hardened veterans in _three_ areas? And three of the most crucial areas in weapons-craft? It was completely illogical. But _damn_ was she good.

She scared me, though. She had a face the like of which I'd never seen. Her features were ordinary enough – straight dark hair, square jaw, muddy brown eyes, a complexion that seemed determined to stay pale no matter how many long hours she spent in the sun – but her face was completely devoid of expression. She never smiled, never laughed, and only rarely spoke. She was completely emotionless, at least on the outside, and did nothing but eat, sleep, and train that I knew of. Her history could practically be the twin of mine, and that was what scared me. I could so easily have been her.

Ceallach had lost her family – mother, father, three siblings and another on the way – in a woad attack only months before. She had what the others lacked, the mindlessness of complete selfless vengeance, a cold sort of battle-madness.

Nevertheless, I saw myself in her, if only in her willingness to learn every deadly artI could teach her. I pitied her for the loss of a chance at life, and had to actively avoid favoring her. In some ways she was the me of three years before.

And so the months passed, with a comfortable, contented schedule worked out within the training group.

I was strained and exhausted, but for the time being I was content.

* * *

It was almost four months after I'd taken on the first group of protégés, and snow now dusted the ground at Badon Hill. I hummed cheerfully to myself as I made my way to the training grounds, sword in hand and with a smaller, rounder shield than the monstrous rectangular things the Roman infantry used. We were going to try something new today.

Shouts caught my attention, and I threw off the shield when I recognized the signs of a fight.

I didn't run; I was furious, and that the villagers could see it was evident as they caught sight of me and quickly cleared the way to the two men locked together in their midst.

When the smaller, stockier man broke away, I knew him as Loc, and the younger man as the tall and lanky Eryk. I stepped between them and brought my elbow up to smash into Loc's nose. He stumbled back and landed ungracefully on his derriere as I knocked Eryk off his feet. I lay my blade at the base of his throat to keep him down.

I leveled my swords at their throats, feeling the shiver run up the cold metal as Eryk swallowed hard to calm his breathing before the point of my weapon could break the skin. Loc panted heavily and tried to stop his eyes fromwatering.

I struggled to keep my voice steady, and not rant wildly as I would've liked to do.

"What is the meaning of this?" I growled. My words positively dripped venom.

No one answered me.

I jerked my head at Eryk and he followed my direction, pushing himself off the ground and standing next to, but not touching, the other man as he too got to his feet.

I looked at each man coldly. "Drop your weapons." They did. Brangaine collected them and stood off to one side.

I sheathed my own blade and stepped forward, disgust writ all across my face.

I kept my eyes on the two men so they could see the absolute disappointment in my expression. They at least had the grace to look shamefaced.

I addressed the crowd first. "Have you nothing better to do than stand around, watching two of your own embarrass and debase themselves? For shame. Go home. There will be no lesson this morning; you may thank your two comrades for that. I have not the patience to deal with you today." They began to disperse.

"Astolat," I barked sharply to the girl who'd obviously been the cause of the disturbance. It was the second oldest girl of the three who first asked me for lessons. "You stay."

When the rest had gone, I turned the full force of my fury on my three victims. "You knew, did you not," I asked Latie, "that these men fancied you?" She nodded ashamedly, tears hanging from her long lashes, but I was in no mood to be sympathetic.

"You knew they both wanted you, and would both go head to head to have you, and yet you didn't make your feelings known?" Again the silent nod. "You decided to let them battle it out, so you wouldn't have to choose and the victor would win your heart?" I tried and failed to keep the disgust out of my next statement.

"Then you aren't fit to be on a battlefield. Fighting takes discipline and quick decision-making, and you've proven you don't have either. It takes trust in your comrades, and their trust in you, and you clearly aren't willing to be conducive to this arrangement." I was rather proud of that last sentence. I'd used a few words from my Latin lessons, which were going fairly well. I always did like languages.

Her two would-be lovers protested on her behalf.

"Be silent," I commanded, and they shut up. "Don't be so certain you won't get the same." I turned back to the girl, who looked stricken, and I almost felt bad for her, but I hardened my heart. A woman who would turn two men against each other had no place in a male-dominated profession. The fact that her two beaus were brothers was even worse, for I had gained a great respect for brotherhood in the two years since our conscription.

"I _may_ allow you to rejoin us one day, _if_ you can prove yourself worthy to be a part of our ranks. But for now, get out of my ring."

She didn't even dispute my claim of ownership over the training grounds, but fled, barely containing her sobs. I briefly regretted being so hard on her, but she had to learn.

"That was cruel," commented Evan from my shoulder. I jumped – I'd been so focused on the three troublemakers that I hadn't heard him sneak up on me.

"Naw," I spoke quietly so only he could hear me, and glanced after her. "If she surprises me and doesn't come back within a few days, she wasn't worth the time and effort to start with, but I sincerely doubt that scenario will come to pass."

"Now, you two," I turned my very best glower on the cowering men, "I ought to put your asses in a sling and throw you to the woads, is what I ought to do. But you're both able fighters, and I know how cursed impulsive men can be – whereas women generally know exactly what they're doing a week before they do it – and so if you convince me you can fight for the right reasons, and not for some petty quarrel over a wench, I will take you back in a few days, once you've had a chance to thoroughly cool off."

They looked quite astounded, and I decided I liked shocking people. It built character.

"But if you don't learn to curb your temper and turn it to your own purposes, rather than disgracing your swords by turning them against each other – you're brothers, by Jázon, and I _won't_ have it – then you will never fight by _my_ side."

They hung their heads – it must have been a strange sight to see two grown men being chewed out by a girl not even out of her teens and almost a foot shorter than them. It didn't tickle me at the time, though.

I felt the beginnings of a headache building near the base of my skull.

"You're dismissed." They left.

"_Dux_," said the same voice at my ear.

That was what they called me; _Dux_. They'd given me the title of a Roman commander, but somehow I wasn't offended. It was more like an affectionate nickname born of gratitude and respect than a comparison between me and the soldiers I hated.

I faced the man addressing me with the vestiges of a scowl on my face, but it failed to intimidate him. Evan was like my co-second-in-command, sharing the responsibility Brangaine had taken upon herself. They worked well together, neither commandeering the tasks they undertook nor slacking off. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if they ended up as lovers one of these days. I'd seen the way he looked at her.

"_Dux_," he reminded me of his presence by settling a large, calloused hand on my shoulder.

"What is it, Ev?" I rubbed my temple. The day had started out badly, and I had the feeling it would only get worse. For someone in my line of work, that usually meant someone would be dying today.

"Myrna the egg seller is complaining about Borden's hounds again. Said they attacked her hens and now they won't lay. I don't think she realizes that half her hens are roosters, and wouldn't lay anyway." He smirked.

"Oh, not again…" I moaned as my head throbbed and my self-control wavered. He gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. "So now I'm Problem-Solver along with Girl-Expert, Love Goddess, Horse-Tender, Crazy Vixen, and All-Around Bitch. What's next? Nappy-Changer? Ruler of Infantile and Adult Hygiene? Papay save me." He looked at me strangely, but shrugged it off in his usual bland manner.

"Oh, go on," I sighed wearily, "Bring on the old harridan."

And so Queen Isolde held court in her little kingdom of dirt and sword. And damn if she wasn't going to collect from Arthur after this little treat. Oh, yes, he owed her indeed.

* * *

I slumped into my usual place in the center of the hayloft where we spent a good deal of our time. It was nearly an hour before noon; I'd been Problem-Solver for at least three hours, and all I wanted to do was lay down before my headache ate me alive from the inside, out. To that end I closed my eyes and tried to will away the pounding at my temples.

I heard the others come in from their own practice. Someone sat in the chair next to the hay bale that I occupied. I knew I presented a sight, sprawled haphazardly with hay in my hair and still wearing my leathers, but the hell with that.

Gentle hands began to rub my shoulders and I sighed in relief and tipped my head back as the fingers skillfully kneaded the stiffness from my neck.

I opened my eyes to see an upside-down Lancelot smirking down at me. It was a more open smile than those he gave his women, which was never surprising as they lasted a night and I, like an incurable disease or a persistent parasite, lasted a lifetime. It didn't make me any less inclined to wipe it off his face, though.

"What's gotten you so stressed?" he queried. He continued to work wonders with my tight muscles.

I ignored his question, opting for a groan of bliss as a vertebra in my neck popped. Lancelot's expression was quite comical as I tilted my head to one side and then the other, initiating a sequence of loud cracks that released almost as much tension as his massage did. He shuddered in blatant revulsion as the readjustment shivered through the bones under his fingertips.

"Lance, you have the hands of a god. If this is what you have to offer, it's no wonder the women flock to you in droves." I looked at the others. "Magic fingers, i'faith," I said appreciatively, and quite seriously.

Attaces guffawed, and Ru chuckled aloud at my attempt at poetic speaking. I stared over their heads and affected an offended air.

Lancelot threw up his chin and looked around at the others, who made themselves comfortable as we spoke, with a certain superior pride. Not to risk bursting his bubble (naturally our primary concern) we managed to stifle our laughter. Barely.

He glanced down at me slyly and said, "Now why don't you come upto my room and find out what _really_ makes them flock?"

He made the offer as he always did, with a twinkle in his eye and a teasing grin plastered on his face. It was a joke he made regularly and lightly, and I'd never taken him up on it, which made pestering me all the more fun for him. I wondered not for the first time what he'd do if I actually _did_ take him up on it. Probably faint in his chair.

I grinned wickedly. I wasn't having a particularly good day so far, and I figured a little laughter was called for. Besides, I was17 and I'd been good for the most part, at least lately; I was entitled to a little fun.

My smile morphed from wicked to seductive in a moment as I stood up and looked upon him sitting there, balancing his chair on its two hind legs.

"Alright, Lance," I purred in my most sultry tone, "Let's go have a good roll in the hay before lunchtime." Inwardly I winced. Maybe the hay reference wasn't quite appropriate, seeing as we _were_ in a hayloft. I hadn't intended it to sound so public. I hoped it wouldn't ruin the joke.

It seemed I'd misjudged after all. He fell _out_ of his chair.

* * *

Once we'd revived Lancelot to a conscious state (with much joshing and throwing of jibes) and righted the chair, which had tumbled over backwards when he lost his balance, we headed down to the commons for lunch, Lance rubbing his forehead and grimacing. He had a nice egg-sized lump there from the spill, but it was his pride that was wounded more than anything.

I caught the leather greaves he threw at me when I cracked a joke about the event, and though I knew him well enough to be certain he'd get his revenge very soon, I mentally shrugged it off and pushed my luck.

"So Lance," I inquired thoughtfully, "tell me. How do the women get you into bed if you faint as soon as they accept your offer?"

He ground his teeth. "I didn't faint," he snapped tartly. I laughed and turned to face forwards again.

And though I should have been wary of his intentions, I was startled when I was scooped up in someone's arms and thrown over his shoulder, jouncing along as he ran. I shrieked shrilly and clutched at his arm, little _whuff_s of breath leaving me every time the pauldron on his shoulder jabbed into my solar plexus. I pounded on his back with furious fists.

"No! Let me down, you bastard! I'm telling you, put me down _right now_ or you won't live to see the light of _gurgle-blub_."

I splashed and sputtered in the cold water of the horse trough with speechless outrage. Wiping a hand across my eyes to clear the droplets from the long, spiky lashes there, I saw Lancelot bent over, supporting himself against the fencepost of the corral while he wheezed fitfully in the throes of hysterical laughter.

"You shouldn't have done that. You should _not_ have done that," I fumed.

When he was coherent once more, he looked at me drenched and sitting despondently in the dirty water. The sight nearly set him off again, but he managed to contain himself and it probably saved his life, too. I glared at him mutely.

"You asked for it," he said by way of apology. I was not appeased.

I stared him down a moment longer and then looked down at my sodden clothing in helpless dismay. I hadn't yet changed out of my practice armor and I knew the wet leather would stiffen and shrink. _Damn_ him.

I glanced at him standing before me, regrettably dry, and put out my hand for him to help me up.

"Oh, no," he held his hands out in front of him as though fending me off. "That one's as old as time. There's no way I'm going to give you that opportunity." And, too, the others shook their heads when I turned my woebegone gaze on them.

Saros shoved his hands in pockets frayed from too much washing and shuffled in place when my eyes landed on him. He stoutly avoided my stare.

"Saros…" My voice was pleading and miserable and warning all at once. He sighed and met my eyes, then came over to me with a muttered oath.

When I was safely out of the wooden trough and wringing out my hair, the young man turned and found Lancelot glaring a glare that promised many sleepless nights and difficult days ahead.

So naturally Saros decided to dig his grave a little deeper. He simply shrugged and jerked his head at me and made me a little less malevolent toward them with his next words.

"She's better with a sword," he said, by way of excuse. I never said he was very bright.

I sloshed to the hall as they roared with laughter and clapped an indignant Lancelot on the shoulder.

Arthur was already at table when I threw open the doors of the hall. Well, one door. They were too heavy to open together, and I wasn't about to make even more of a fool of myself by struggling at it for their amusement.

He looked at me dripping on the rushes for a long moment as the others filed in and sat down. Sipped his wine as he considered me. His mouth twitched.

"If you wanted a bath, I'd have asked the women to have one drawn, Isolde. What did you do now?"

That was the last straw.

"Not a thing," I said tightly. "_My lord._"

He jerked as if struck. I felt a twinge of regret. To any other person it would seem like a tiny barb, a splinter hardly worthy of notice, but to someone like Arthur, who tried every day to fit in with us, to be our brother and friend above all else, it was a low blow.

"Here, Isolde, he didn't do anything to you," protested Bran, "you shouldn't take your anger out on him."

"Don't you bloody well tell me what I should do, Branor son of Beorgor, unless you're in my damned head with me."

He recoiled and stood abruptly, placing hand on hilt. "Stop while you're ahead, Isolde. That is more than enough for one day."

I felt unexpected sobs well up, and flew out of the hall. I ran to the stables – the first place I could think of – and flung myself into Simargl's stall, taking deep, shuddering breaths. I looked for my equine friend, but he wasn't there. I remembered he'd been put out to pasture with the others. Even he'd abandoned me. I stifled the unfair thought.

Why had I blown up at Arthur that way? He had done no more than tease me like the others had, countless times before. He was my friend, and my commander. And Branor, who had only tried to curb my anger against a man dear to him, had become victim of it as well.

I rested my forehead in the palm of my hand. My eyes felt hot, as though I'd been crying, but I hadn't been able to cry since That Day. I felt the headache beating its drums from the base of my skull spreading outward. I wanted to cry. I _needed_ to cry. But all I had was a migraine, a vague feeling of nausea in my stomach, and a strong urge to kill someone.

It was only months into our knighthood and already I was used to the killing. Once, I asked Wynn if you ever adjusted to it, and he'd said, "There would be something wrong with you if you did."

Was there something wrong with me? I remembered of a sudden the last time I had asked myself that question, only weeks after That Day. I'd suspected I had no heart then.

I still felt little for the massacre but hatred of the Romans who did it. The only ones I found I could love were my brothers-in-arms, and perhaps Brangaine and Evan, and then I went and did something like this to drive them away.

I fingered my knife. It was a pretty thing, more than suitable for its gory work. As flat as parchment, with a shear edge and a tang in the full push style… it was a simple single-edged blade, more like the weapons that were favored by the Saxons, but its simplicity was not crude. A good weapon. I had killed many men with it, cut their throats and gutted them and slipped my blade between their ribs. And for what? For a cause I didn't even believe in.

Such thoughts would drive me mad. I stood with a purpose, and left the stables. Somehow I had sat in the empty stall for nigh on two hours. Yet I knew where my commander would be.

He was indeed bent over papers in his quarters, with Bran, Lancelot, and Kei standing round him. Their quiet talk stopped when they noticed me lingering listlessly in the doorway. Without a word Lance and Kei went from the room, the latter casting me a hard glance, and his message was clear. Don't you dare give him more to worry about, it said. I wasn't planning to.

I spoke to Bran as he passed. He nodded. He understood. His hand clasped my shoulder and he left me alone with my leader.

Right away I crossed to where he stood motionless and knelt, taking his hand and pressing it to my forehead in a silent plea for forgiveness. He knew that I, above all others, was aware of what he dealt with every day, and I understood that in this way I had injured him more than any other could have.

"Forgive me, Arthur. You are my commander, and I don't know what came over me. I should never have tried to hurt you." I waited there for long moments, and each was as unto an hour. I could not see his face.

Finally he pulled me up and embraced me, and said, "I know you've been training the villagers alongside your own work. You broke up the fight between Eryk and Loc this morning, and quite possibly saved one of their lives. You have certainly taken on many headaches that would have been mine. I know the strain you've been under lately; who better? No matter what you do, you are my best friend in many ways."

I mumbled into his chest, "That is no excuse. My behavior was atrocious."

"You're still human, Isolde. We all are. We're none of us immune to anger. We're none of us saints."

The words so nearly echoed my own thoughts of only minutes ago that I almost jumped. I stepped back, feeling rather better than I thought I might. He saw this and smiled gently at me.

"Just promise me you won't do it again."

I thought back on my heated words and smirked with a measure of my usual wry humor. "I promise, Arthur. I'll never address you with respect again."

He laughed, and all was right between us once again. I was forgiven.

* * *

_LANCELOT…_

Lancelot had had a good day. After the initial nastiness from Isolde, which he'd passed off as female volatility, he'd spent the afternoon beating the pants off of young Galahad at the sword – restoring his hurt pride from the remark Saros had earlier made. Then he'd slipped something nice and slimy into the bed of the aforementioned knight (he had just heard him squeal) and gone to drink in the tavern, where two lovely wenches had attached themselves to him for the night. One had turned out to be claimed, and though that fact had never discouraged him, the Roman who had claimed her took exception to his advances and Lance didn't want to add a dead Roman to Arthur's plate (or so he virtuously told himself).

Now he was snuggled up with the second, unclaimed tart after a wild bout of bed play, and was just starting to drift off to sleep.

He woke of a sudden to a bucket full of _cold_ water soaking his head and torso, splashing the woman at his side as well. He howled in shock and cursed long and loud. That wretched girl!

He sighed when he got no response and gave it up as a lost cause. She'd get hers one day. He only hoped he'd be there to see the look on her face.

From afar a woman's hearty chuckle fell lightly and gaily upon his ears, and then all faded to silence. He looked dispassionately at the bawd who sat next to him, bleary-eyed and annoyed at the sudden rude awakening as she wrung water out of her long, dark hair, black as coal in the moonlight.

He thought he heard an echo of that pleasant laughter, not unlike the deeply rolling toll of a bell, and smiled into the dark.

* * *

End Chapter.

I know it's a little shorter than usual – I didn't meet my usual goal of 10,000 words, only 8,000 this time– but I had a mild case of writer's block when I started reading something else, where I just wasn't in the mood to write. It doesn't happen often, but when it does it takes a while for me to get in my groove again.

It was a little darker, I'll admit. I wanted you all to see that life wasn't all peachy for them, and there was some tension at times. Just like people in real life, my characters don't always play their roles and sometimes just get fed up for no reason. Maybe she acted childishly, or without provocation, but isn't that just what we all do at times?

Hope you enjoyed it. I don't like to let the sun go down on anger, so to speak, so if you noticed my chapters often end somewhat happily, that's why.

**Ribhinn**


	6. VI

"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."

* * *

**Peace of Mind**

_Three years later…_

_ISOLDE…_

**Vindomora, at Ebchester, in Durham, Southeast of Badon Hill

* * *

**

_Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!_

The twelve of us – me, Bran and Itaz, Marrok, Saros, Kuluk, Bersules and Carradas, Galahad, Sagremour, and young Mabon and Palomydes – who had been chosen for this mission sat around the table in the soldier's hall.

It was after hours, so there was no one around but us, with only the dwindling light of the great fire to see by as we tried to plan a strategy to eliminate the ranging bandits from the hills they plagued. The servants would be in soon to bank the glowing coals for the night.

The sole sounds in the big room were the squeaking of rats as they feasted on the crumbs left over from the evening meal and the constant rapping of Saros' hands on the tabletop as he hummed along to a tune.

_Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!_

"Cut it out, Sar, and help us out for once, would you?" Bran snapped. We were all short of patience, but none more so than Branor, as he'd been placed in charge again as Arthur and the rest of the knights went to aid a besieged fortress to the north. As we couldn't all abandon our current mission, Arthur had left the twelve of us behind.

Bran's best friend Kei, his second half, was with Arthur, and it was obvious that Bran didn't like that fact at all. None of us liked the thought of our brothers in the thick of battle without us there to watch their backs. Maybe it was silly to think we could avert fate if it was determined to take one of our number, but there you are.

"Calm yourself, my friend," said the ever-easy Marrok.

Carradas spoke up. "I say we just surround them – here" he pointed at a valley on the map "and put a little pressure on 'em, but keep out of sight – like those woads did to us near Luguvalium almost two years ago. Remember how we thought they were ghosts till Tris took one down?" I remembered. That was the battle we'd lost Durgulel and Gokhar. It had always felt right that they both go down together, them being so very close and all. I almost missed his follow up.

"They used those darts of theirs that go right in and they're so tiny it looks like there's nothing there at all, like they just open up and die… you reckon we could make some'o'those? If not, we could just use those black arrows – scare 'em."

Itaz looked thoughtful. "They aren't nearly as disciplined as we were… it might work. We'd have to use the black ones. We" he referred to himself, Carradas, and Bersules, our fletchers, "haven't been able to recreate those darts yet, but we've been working on it. Besides that, though, it's a good plan."

The silence continued for several minutes. Then,

_Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!_

"Saros!" Kuluk roared, thoroughly fed up.

"I can't help it!" The younger knight cried. "It's not my fault they had to sing that bloody song _six_ times in one night! It's fixed in me 'ead, like."

After another long stretch of quiet, I couldn't stop myself. He was right, it _was_ a song that stayed in your head. I started to hum the tune, the sound barely audible in the big, drafty room.

The others looked at me – several as though they could've cheerfully snapped my neck. I smiled at them and kept humming. Carradas began to chuckle, and then to laugh.

I grinned as the others laughed too, Kuluk being the last to give in. We always did feel better with a plan.

We broke into the chorus of the infuriating, unforgettable song, ignoring the shouts of disturbance our singing caused when it awoke the good townspeople.

We'd calmed down again and were beginning to think of retiring for the night when we heard _Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP!_

"_SAROS!" _we shouted, and the imp grinned at us and sprinted from the room, Kuluk hot on his tail.

* * *

We headed out the next morning with our quivers full of black arrows, each of us with all the metal removed from our armor or dulled with soot, and the horses, except for Bran and Bersules' white geldings, had been rubbed with soot or ash as well. All the bandits would see would be the dark shape of horse and rider ghosting through the trees, and the white apparition that was Branor in the fog.

We stationed ourselves around the valley where the group of rebel Britons and Roman deserters had camped for the night. They had only just begun to stir when I climbed a tree – quite close to them, in fact – to give the signal. It wasn't until they had packed up and were preparing to leave that I gave the owl's call the others were waiting for.

Without a sound, six of their company simultaneously dropped. The others grouped together immediately – _idiots_ – took cover behind their shying horses – _cowards_ – and I took the opportunity to swing down into Simargl's saddle.

The rebels, shields now in hand, headed toward the northern end of the valley, charging their horses at the gap between the two rocks.

Branor brought his horse into view between those very rocks, ignoring their looks of shocked amazement. His face was powdered white with flour, and his bow was solid black as he raised it and stretched the string far back, holding his position for only a moment before plunging the missile into the throat of the first man.

From where I sat under the trees, I could see most of the scene as the startled fighters let off a volley of arrows – all of which seemed to miraculously miss him… all but one, which he cut out of the air with Brehus' little trick.

The Britons in the group, being more superstitious than Romans, were the first to scramble back frantically. The Romans quickly followed suit. I saw Branor step out of sight once they had turned their backs.

But when they reached the other end of the valley, several having fallen prey to our skill in the meantime, the same apparition was waiting for them there. Bersules.

He raised his bow and planted an arrow in the eye of one rebel before the mist closed around him and he ducked away. When it cleared somewhat, there was nothing there and they all stood in a circle at the center of the clearing.

It was then that one of them raised a trumpet to his lips and blew a peculiar call.

For a moment nothing happened, and then I heard Marrok, our rear man, scream.

I wheeled Simargl around and charged up the hill, realizing with a sharp jolt of dread just what had happened.

"Bran!" I shrieked in my headlong flight. "Get back to the fort! They've come up behind us! _Retreat!_"

I heard him take up the call and the sounds of my brothers following his order.

I found Marrok quite by accident, nearly trampling him beneath my horse's hooves. His own mount was nowhere to be found. I swung down to kneel beside him before Simargl had even stopped moving.

"Khors," I breathed. Two arrows had buried themselves in his back; one was perilously close to his spine. He was only unconscious, but that meant nothing. I took out my knife and cut the arrows down. We had no time to do more.

His eyes fluttered and opened, pupils dilated with pain. It took him a moment to focus on my face. Then he wasn't looking at my face anymore and I turned in time to jump out of the way of a large broadsword before it could separate my head from my shoulders.

I drew my own sword and rolled under his next swing. My cut to the back of his knees was blocked and he caught me across the face with his elbow. I spat out blood and part of a tooth and swore. We circled each other warily. Suddenly he charged me with a wild yell.

In a move born of desperation I dropped to one knee at the last moment – giving up all hope of maneuverability – and braced my sword against my thigh. The warrior had no time to slow his momentum and he flew over my knee and landed some eight feet beyond me, my sword through his gut.

With a growl of frustration, I retrieved my blade and wiped it on his none-too-clean clothes. When I turned back to Marrok and saw a figure standing over him, I very nearly killed Galahad, thinking him to be another attacker.

The lad – nearly a man now, I reminded myself – was standing beside Simargl with his bow in hand. His horse was missing, too. I sighed and took a step toward my fallen friend,but wasknocked back on my heelswhen the arrow struck me.

* * *

I looked down at the arrow shaft protruding from my collarbone with something vaguely resembling surprise. There was a furious cry as Galahad brought his bow to bear on the archer who had shot me. The man's scream told me his aim was true.

I noticed that I'd stumbled to my knees. Strange, that. I didn't _feel_ weak. I didn't feel much of anything, except the cold. The awful, bone-deep cold. Shock, I realized in the far reaches of my mind.

I became aware of Galahad talking to me.

"-got to stay with me, Isolde…Saros needs…I need your help…have to lift him onto Simargl."

"You know, Gal…" My voice sounds far away. "This is my first time being shot, and I'm not liking it overmuch." His quiet chuckle let me know I'd made some kind of sense, which was a good thing – I'd found that when I was wounded, I had a tendency to talk out of my head.

With his help, I managed to get to my feet. Galahad inspected my wound as I braced myself against Simargl. But when he probed gently at it, my eyes began to roll back in my head and I nearly fainted with the pain.

He slapped me around and I gritted, "I wouldn't do that again if I were you, unless you want two unconscious knights on your hands."

He looked at me a little sheepishly. "Sorry. It looks like the arrow glanced off your collarbone – the bone is broken, but the arrow itself isn't very deep."

"Oh, good. That's supposed to make me feel better?" I gasped out.

"Well, no," he said. "I'm going to go to the fort to see if I can get help for both of you. Take my cloak. Stay awake. I'll be back as soon as I can. And for both of your sakes, stay quiet. I don't know where they've all gone, but I'm fairly sure the others made it back already." I nodded and spread his cloak over the both of us.

"I know, Gal. Hurry back, though. I'm cold," I warned. He frowned, and I knew why. It was a warm day, with the sun pouring down on us where the trees didn't shadow, all traces of fog gone. It must have been approaching midday by now. He turned and set off at a light run.

"Khors guide you," I whispered to his retreating back.

* * *

_There are six weak points on the common warrior; the back of the neck, the throat, the insides of the elbows, the stomach, the insides of the thighs, and the backs of the knees. Most of these points are the most tender, and so more pain – a distraction to all but the most disciplined of fighters – can be inflicted there. For every warrior there will be different weaknesses – fear, overconfidence, faulty equipment, loved ones, traitors – but these are the most common. There is no dishonor in exploiting an opponent's weaknesses; that is what swordsmanship is all about, after all. While they will still exist, a good fighter will learn to protect his weaknesses._

I recited my father's speech in my head, remembering the exercises he'd put me through over and over to enhance the meaning of the words.

I was halfway through what to do if you are disarmed and caught in a pincer when I heard rustling in the bushes. The person swore in Latin as I slid my throwing knife from my belt.

"-Know they're here somewhere," the voice muttered. Galahad stepped into view and I buried the weapon in the tree next to his head, where it stood quivering. Galahad looked quite close to quivering himself.

"Merciful Azamas," he croaked, looking at me reproachfully. "You should warn a man before you do that." He flipped the knife back to me and I caught it clumsily with my left hand.

"That would defeat the purpose, don't you think? That's the second time today I've almost killed you. And since when is Azamas, a god of death, merciful?" I slumped back against the tree trunk, feeling spent.

The arrow shaft still stuck out of my shoulder – I couldn't have pulled it out alone if I'd tried, even jarring it made me start to lose consciousness. When I'd thrown the knife, I'd nearly screamed. Looking at it now, the bone looked unnaturally bent, and I knew Galahad had been correct in his evaluation an hour prior.

The 16-year-old crossed the distance between us quickly, concern etched across his face. I knew I must look terrible – my face was drained of color, a long, dark stain of blood down my entire right side, soaking into the ground by my hand.

"You've forgotten the reviving part of his nature again, Isolde. So quick to see the bad side. You're a hopeless pessimist sometimes." His attempt to lighten the mood fell rather flat and he checked the wound again, _tsk_ing at me. "Did you have to cut it that close, though?" he asked plaintively. "It was very nearly implanted in my head."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, confused. My arm hurt terribly and I felt the beginnings of a headache behind my temples. "I'm right-handed; I missed."

He swallowed hard, and looked over at Marrok. I'd managed to stuff cloth from my torn shirt around the wounds in an attempt to slow the bleeding, but it was a poor job. The physicians back at the fort would have a hard time of…

"Galahad," I said sharply. "Where are the others?"

He cast his eyes to the ground. "It's not good. You won't like this."

"Out with it, lad." I dug my nails into the palm of my hand and hissed. He let his own hand drop from my injured shoulder.

"They're holed up in the fortress. Seems the rebels attacked the settlement itself and they've gained strength – they have numbers we never knew of, or thought they could gather. It's an impressive force, considering what they had to work with. We're far outnumbered, unless they can pull off some miracle."

"But the long and short of it is, there's no way to get in or out, or even to send a message to them. They can't help us, Isolde. They don't even know we're alive."

* * *

I rested my head backagainst the tree, thinking. Marrok urgently needed help, and I was beginning to feel woozy. I knew I'd lost blood, but I couldn't help that. I pushed back the pain again. _Think, Isolde!_

"Marrok needs a physician," I mused aloud. "We only have one horse, and we can't afford to wait until the siege breaks, one way or the other. Right now we're about two day's ride from Badon Hill…"

I bit my lip. If we made for Badon, it would take more than two days to get there. It might take up to four, maybe five days. But it could take much longer than that for the others to break the siege. I didn't like it, but we had no choice.

"We go back home to Badon," I said. "We can't wait here, and we can't go to Bran – if he's even alive."

"Oh, he is," smirked Galahad, "He was strutting around the parapets like he owned the place, and that Roman commander wasn't looking too happy it, either."

I ignored his comment. "We can tie Marrok over Simargl's back, and you and I can walk. You'll have to lead Simargl; I can't put up with his fussing with only one arm, no matter how well trained he is now."

Galahad hoisted me up again, and together we slung Marrok's legs over my saddle and let him slump over the unhappy horse's back, tying him hand and foot to keep him from falling. The poor lad would have some bruises if he lived through this, but it was the best we could do.

We started out with Galahad in front, leading my horse and his burden behind him, and me stumbling along and bringing up the rear.

To avoid the rebels and the woads' attention, we had to stay well away from the road, which made the going that much rougher. I couldn't even take the time to cover our trail, as I would have done under different circumstances.

The first day was by far the hardest, with my wound bleeding freely and my nerves strung tightly, ready at any second to hear the sound of a bow being drawn, or the shout of recognition as the rebels prepared to finish us off.

That night we pulled Marrok off Simargl and covered ourselves with our cloaks. I lay flat on my back, a position I never liked, and tried to ignore the fire in my shoulder. Then I grew oblivious to the world and I fell off a cliff and slept.

* * *

The following two days were a blur, my mind encased in a heavy fog of exhaustion. I gained cuts and scrapes from my many falls. Without both arms to steady myself, and my strength steadily trickling out through the wound in my shoulder, I had very little attention to spare for trivialities.

The morning of the fourth day, I blinked my eyes open and groaned when the pain came back, seemingly multiplied a thousand fold for my short respite. Galahad was up and about, my ears told me. When I looked over I saw that he'd packed up everything he could with me asleep.

"Gal?"

He saw that I was awake and said, "Morning, Isolde. Time to go."

I pushed myself off the ground with some difficulty. The damp had gathered in my wool cloak, but for the most part I'd been kept safe from the chill of the night. My muscles were nevertheless stiff and sore from the previous day's mishaps and the long trek.

I looked at the arrow still protruding strangely from my broken collarbone – we'd trimmed it down, but so far hadn't made any attempt to remove it – and knew I'd put it off as long as I could.

Once we'd loaded Marrok onto Simargl again, I voiced the dreaded necessity with a good bit of trepidation.

"Galahad," he looked at me questioningly. "We have to take the arrow out." He paled and tried to stammer that he couldn't, he didn't know how, Wynn and Palomydes were the ones who did healing, not him, and-

"Galahad, either this comes out or I die. I can't do it myself, and Wynn is who knows where with Arthur. I need your help." He swallowed and nodded.

He pulled my bag of supplies out of the saddlebags behind Marrok. The wounded boy moaned and opened bleary eyes. He'd slept most of the journey, but had taken fever the night before and was restless with sickness.

"'Solde?" He croaked, out of sorts. "What's wrong? Where are we?"

"Nothing, Mar, go back to sleep. Sleep now." I brushed sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. As his eyes slid closed, I absently wondered how I could sound so normal when I was in so much pain.

I pulled out a thick piece of tough leather, scored with teeth marks; long linen bandages; a flask of the strongest alcohol to be found at Badon; and a sharp little one-sided blade that the fort's physician called a scalpel. Lastly, I took out a pair of tongs for gripping the arrow shaft.

Because it was a Roman arrow and not Saxon or woad, there was a sharp, barbed metal point at its end to catch in the body and lodge there. It wouldn't come out easily, hence the tongs.

After giving explicit instructions to a queasy, shaking Galahad while trying to keep my own gorge down, I put my back up against a tree, pulled my armor carefully away from the injury, and took a large gulp of the alcohol.

It burned all the way down. Once I stopped coughing and sputtering, I made myself take another, and another. If I didn't, I knew I'd surely regret it.

"After you do this thing, make sure we get out of here as soon as possible. I don't want anyone to hear something and come upon us, and I don't know how sensible I'll be."

I'd saved a good amount of the flask to cleanse the wound afterwards, and I put the biteplate in my mouth and clamped down on it. Then I sat firmly on my hands. I didn't want to be flailing around and hitting Galahad when he was just trying to help.

He nodded silently to let me know he'd heard and visibly steeled himself before bringing the knife to bear.

My screams were muffled by the leather, and I couldn't have held them in if I tried.

Once he'd cut around the shaft, Galahad grasped the tongs tight around the wood and _pulled_.

I was in a world of pain. _Sad, god of the underworld, take me now! Oh merciful gods, let me die!_ I shrieked in my head. I could hear the high keening I was making through the tough leather in my mouth.

The arrow came loose with a wet _pop!_ and I sagged back against the trunk. The biteplate fell from my slack jaw and dropped to the ground, connected by a string of saliva that I didn't care enough about to wipe away. I took deep, shuddering breaths and tried to recover. A stream of sweat ran down my face and dripped onto my bloody armor.

The arrow was gone, and my collarbone was set as well as it could be, but it wasn't over yet. The coolness of the liquid went unnoticed when the alcohol set in to burning. Without the tough leather strip in my mouth, my screams shattered the silence of the woods until I surrendered to the blissful dark.

* * *

_MUSE…_

Arthur halted when Tristan did. Over the jingling of their horses' tack, he could hear the faint sound of screaming. He shared a look with his knights as one by one they took notice of the noise. They'd completed their mission, and nothing prevented them from investigating.

His decision made, the commander nodded to Tristan and the knights turned their horses and pounded after the scout as the scream faded away.

* * *

_ISOLDE…_

I woke to Galahad slapping me around. I reached for my shoulder and my fingers found clean, smooth cloth. The terrible agony of what seemed like moments before had been reduced to a heavy, throbbing ache.

"Come on," Galahad heaved me to my feet by my good arm. "Can you walk?"

I grunted in response, too exhausted to do anything else.

"I hope that's a yes," said the worried young man.

I noticed through the haze that my supplies had been put away. He offered me the jerked meat and water flask that Arthur insisted we all carry and I took it. I was too hungry to care that I stuffed the food into my mouth and chewed away without any finesse whatsoever. I had no use for manners at times like this one, if I ever did.

He took the reins and started to lead Simargl. I called after him, "Gal," He glanced back.

"You did a good job, and I'm proud of you. Thank you." He nodded to me, and I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the way his face was pinched and white. It occurred to me through my scattered mind that he'd eaten little and slept less in the past couple days. I felt a faint glow of pride in him. He really was a good lad.

* * *

_MUSE…_

"Arthur," Brehus called. The Roman picked up his pace to catch up to him, the late afternoon sun gleaming on his scarlet-plumed helmet.

"What is it?" The scout led him further into the forest.

"Here. There are traces of a camp. No fire, but this is woad territory, and those rebels Bran's taking care of aren't far off. It's understandable that they wouldn't want to draw attention to themselves, whether they're woad or rebel. Three men, one unconscious – see how there's signs of something being dragged, and this dark spot here – that's got to be blood. At least one of the others is injured, too."

He knelt down next to a tree, where there was a large patch of dark soil. "I found this," he picked up an arrowhead with half of the shaft still attached, the whole thing crusty with dried blood, "right over there. Makes me think they're woad, if they've got Roman arrows in them, unless it's rebels with a woad prisoner."

"Do you think it might be some of ours?" Arthur furrowed his brow.

"Not likely. If it were, they'd be traveling in a large group, and there'd be enough horses for all of them. These three have one badly injured person on the horse, and another who's wounded but able to walk trailing behind them. I followed the trail for a ways and they're making their way steadily northward – toward the Wall. Anything further than that is just speculation on my part."

"All right. We'll follow this trail on our way back to Badon, but that's as far as it goes. I can't risk us being caught in an ambush because of three men. If we lose the trail, I don't want to waste time searching for it again. We're all tired. I want to get everyone home in one piece."

* * *

_ISOLDE…_

I looked up at the sun, which was inching down below the trees. It was about three hours before dark. We could still get in a good four hours of travel, until it became too dark to continue safely.

I had a vague idea of where we were, but it was Galahad who had to navigate. Every hour or so he'd run off to make sure we hadn't strayed too far from the trail. Quite often we had to adjust our course when he came back.

This time, he came back with a frown creasing his forehead.

"I think we're being followed," he said as soon as he returned to us. "I heard something like a horse's whinny when I reached the trail. And there were signs of maybe ten horsemen who had already passed, maybe five, six hours ago. I'm not a scout, but I'm sure that's what I saw. There's a stream a mile ahead. We should make our way there and travel in the water for a while. Then I want you to try to cover our trail – just for a short time, until we're sure we've lost them."

I nodded and shivered despite the warm day. Galahad looked at me sharply but I quelled my trembling and gave him a weak smile of reassurance.

"Let's go."

* * *

_MUSE…_

Arthur sighed. The strange trail had ended in the creek. In fact, it could hardly be called that. It was more a trickle that was barely wide enough to hide a horse's tracks, but it had served its purpose.

Tristan had found the scrape of something being swept over the dirt by the stream a half-mile westward, but all signs had then disappeared. There were no broken twigs to follow, no bent grass, and it was quickly growing too dark to see anything. They'd have to abandon the search.

Arthur had grown more and more curious as they went on, and didn't like having to give up on it, but they didn't have much of a choice. Whoever their quarry was had obviously realized they were being tracked, and had taken precautions. Anything his scouts found from there on would most likely lead them false.

"Alright, men," he conceded. "Let's go home."

The tavern was a gloomy place when Arthur and his knights returned that evening, fully expecting a happy reunion with their women, only to find Bran and the others were already there. They nursed large mugs of ale and stronger things, all uncharacteristically quiet. Arthur immediately pulled out a chair and slumped down into it.

"Who, Kuluk?" he asked the swordsman. The knight was the oldest of the morose group who was capable of answering the question, as Bran's eyes were bleary from drink and dark with grief, and Carradas sat in the shadowed corner away from the others, looking guilt-ridden.

"Palomydes, Galahad," Gawain moaned and dropped into a chair, "Marrok, and… and Isolde."

"_No._" Balai, Lance, and Ru spoke at almost the same moment. Dee swiped at his eyes and sought comfort with Johf, his friend and the only other one of the youngest who'd always been close to Isolde. Tristan turned on his heel and left the room, and Wynn soon followed him.

Bran seemed to shrink in on himself as Kuluk listed their casualties. He looked up at Arthur with shame in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I tried to keep them safe, but…" Arthur put a hand on his shoulder, and the younger knight buried his face in his own trembling hands and let out a shuddering sigh.

"If I hadn't come up with that stupid, stupid plan… if we'd known about the spy…" Carradas spoke wretchedly from the dark.

"What happened?" Arthur whispered. And they told him.

* * *

_ISOLDE…_

The next morning we left early. Galahad seemed to think whoever was following us had been foiled by the trick with the water, and we went at a less hurried pace. Marrok hadn't improved, but he was hanging onto life. We couldn't be more than a few hours away now.

But the icy mountain stream hadn't done me any good, nor had wearing cold, wet boots all night. I shivered and shook constantly. Colors and sounds came to me in an odd way, distorted and far away.

I focused entirely on making it to the Wall. There was nothing else in my head. _Have to get home, have to get home._ I put one foot in front of the other, my uneven footsteps plodding along in time with the mantra.

It was noon when I finally collapsed.

My muscles, weak from fever, stress, and overall fatigue, cramped and I went down clumsily, dropping to one knee and falling backwards to sprawl on the sun-warmed ground.

"Isolde? Isolde!" A face and voice made their way out of the bright shining sun and down the well I'd fallen into. My vision went dark around the edges. I felt my good shoulder being shaken and I feebly pushed at the hand doing the shaking. I just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn't it let me sleep?

Reason flashed briefly. "Go." I pushed at his chest. _Go._ _Go now._ _Get out of here. Let me die in peace._

"Bloody hell, if you think I'm leaving you here, you've got another thing coming, damn you!" _I said go _away"Up. You're riding in front of Marrok." _Nooo. I don't want to ride with Arshak. Why does he have to come, Papa? He's old enough to go on his own! You promised I could go alone!_

_Why did you have to go away, Papa? I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I wish I hadn't been on patrol. Then at least I'd be dead with you and Mama and Arshak and Alathea and not here._

"That's it, put your foot there, and up you go. We're getting you home, Isolde. You're not going to die, I won't let you. I should have known you weren't well enough to walk. If I'd put you up here in the first place you wouldn't even be sick."

_Don't say that, Gatalas. You don't know that. It's my fault you're dead, anyway. I loved you. Did you know that? I loved you and you died, just like everyone else died. But you don't haunt my dreams. Why can't I remember your face? You're the only one I don't see when I close my eyes at night._

_I see you now, though. I see you the way I saw you last, with your beautiful body all charred and mangled, your knife clutched in your dead fingers before I took it, your spear in your other hand ready to kill them all…_

_Strange... you wouldn't even touch a _kontos _when we were young; you thought they were useless weapons, and swore you'd never use one. I never thought you would. Yet you took it up in this, your last battle. You always were too much of a hero for your own good. _

_Don't care, don't care, I just want to sleep, is all. Just go to sleep and when I wake up I'll be there with you, with all of you. Just sleep…_

"Take them, quick! Get them off the blasted horse, you damned fools! They're near dead, and you want me to stop and chat about how we've come back from the bloody grave? Are you fucking mad? Don't just stand there, you nitwits, or I'll kill you myself!"

_Be nice, you. Just because they don't like ghosts doesn't mean we have to give them reason. Are we ghosts? Does it really matter? Where's Arthur? I have to tell him… tell him…_

But I lost the thought in the swirling vortex of my memories, dark memories and childhood memories and memories that were bizarrely surreal and couldn't be true, and there was pain and voices and then there was nothing at all.

* * *

_MUSE…_

Lance slammed his fist down on the table. _Why?_ He asked no one for the thousand-and-first time. _Why, why, why? _Why_, dammit!_

Over the last day, he'd taken to destroying things at random times. That morning at breakfast, the cup he'd shattered against the wall… the chair in his room… the deck of cards he'd thrown into the fire… the stable door…

Balai had locked himself in his room and refused to come out. Ru seemed to be following Lancelot's violent example by smashing the nose of the groom who tried to put another horse in Simargl's stall. Gawain seemed to be trying to drown himself in ale and women. Tristan had disappeared from the fort entirely. Arthur had decided to deal with his grief by throwing himself into his duty wholeheartedly. Everyone else had gathered in the hayloft that remained theirs. They'd all had brothers die before, but somehow Isolde's absence was more prominent than anyone else's.

So it was that Lancelot was alone in the tavern when the commotion started. Gawain had gone upstairs with one of the girls several hours earlier, and even if he hadn't, he'd be too drunk to notice much of anything at all.

Lancelot stumbled to his feet, being none too sober himself, and made his way to the door – in time to catch Galahad before he nearly fell into the room.

"You're not dead!" The ever-astute Lancelot exclaimed.

"No," the young knight rasped, "But right now I wish I were."

"How? How did you survive?" Galahad swayed, and Lance slung his arm over his shoulders and helped him over to the table nearest to them so he could lean against the rough wood. Lancelot tried to muster as much relief as he could for the boy who was alive when Isolde was-

"I'd tell you now, but I only stopped here because it was as far as I could make it on my own. If you help me to the infirmary, I think you might want to check on Isolde first."

The older boy nearly ran out the door without his worn comrade, but took his arm again and supported him across the square to the building where the physician was already at work.

But once they got to the doorway, Lance could and _did_ leave him to cling to the doorsill and watch as his friend went almost cautiously to her bedside. She was so pale… a shadow of her usually vibrant self.

Lancelot noticed just how close to collapsing Galahad was himself and he pulled him over to a cot near Isolde. "Sit," he ordered. "Wait."

With that he sprinted to the stables.

"What's your hurry, Lance?" Saros called down, unable to rally a convincing show of enthusiasm. Which was really all right, because Lancelot, usually the gloomy one, was happy enough for the two of them.

"They're alive! Thank Khors and Azamas, they're alive! Galahad, Marrok, and Isolde are back!" He shouted joyously. There was a sudden flurry of activity and he heard frantic shuffling above before he turned and ran to the fortress hall.

Arthur's eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot from looking at battle plans until he wanted to burn them all. He looked up when Lancelot burst into the hall.

"Arthur, come quickly! She's alive, they're all three of them alive! Hurry up, come _on!_" He sounded remarkably like a child at midwinter with a pile of presents awaiting him.

The commander abandoned the paperwork without a second thought and followed his friend to the infirmary.

There was a crowd of men at the door already. Lancelot elbowed his way through the crowd, though they parted for Arthur like the great Red Sea was said to have parted its waters for Moses in the Holy Book of the Christians.

Lance looked out the window and saw, wonder of all wonders, Gawain running crookedly in the general direction of the infirmary, obviously still drunk. He ran pell-mell with his feet kicking up dirt behind him, a sheet wrapped around his waist, and a half-naked girl hanging out the window behind him, pouting and calling him back to her bed.

He stifled his mirth at the spectacle and turned back to Galahad, who was being showered with questions. "Now talk." The room went very silent. Gal straightened and spoke.

"They got Marrok good. Two arrows in the back. Isolde was amazing, never panicked. But right after she found him those bastards put an arrow in her shoulder, broke her collarbone. Second day in she damn near performed surgery on him with only one arm, and me too ignorant to know that it was far too close to the spine for us to just pull it out."

"I went back to the fort, or tried. I saw Bran but there was no way, no way to contact any of you. They were fighting off those damned rebels, and we couldn't wait for you to kill all of 'em, Marrok needed help. So we put him up on Simargl, me leading the damn nag, and Isolde brought up our rear."

"We made fairly good time until the fourth day. That morning she decided we had to take the arrow out of her shoulder – we'd avoided it because we were in enemy territory, too close to them to consider making too much noise, and also, I think, because she was plain scared to pull it out."

"So we finally did, and that afternoon I was checking our position and I heard horsemen. I went back and told Isolde, and we decided to hide our trail by walking in a stream I'd found ahead, in case we were being tracked by whoever was behind us."

Des couldn't take it anymore. "That was us! We heard someone scream-"

"That was Isolde." Galahad looked pained at the memory.

"Khors. Anyway, we heard her scream and found your trail. We followed you for a day, but lost the tracks in the water. Bloody miserable excuse for a stream, by the way."

He smiled weakly at Des. "She'll be glad to hear it worked. But it was one of those mountain streams that are ice cold even in summer. She had a fever this morning, and collapsed around midday. Babbled nonsense for a few hours, and then just – stopped. That was the scariest part of the whole thing."

They all looked over at her still form several cots over, where the physician and his helpers swarmed about the two patients. Arthur clasped his shoulder

"You did very well, Galahad. Thank you for bringing them both back. You're-" But whatever he was, they would never find out, because just then his eyes rolled and Lancelot, who was closest, caught him as he fainted and laid him back on the cot.

"I think he's just exhausted." He told Arthur. Then they were all ushered out of the room so the physician could do his job properly. He'd already determined that both wounded would live, if only barely.

But oh, it was a different group of young men who went, laughing gaily, to congregate in the hall.

* * *

Late that night, when they all sat at the long trestle tables, having laughed and caroused the evening away, there was break in conversation and silence reigned. They mourned young Palomydes, of course, but having three of their number back amongst them made matters seem less grave.

The silence was broken suddenly when, bathed in the light of the dying flames, they heard, _rap tap tap taptap-a-rap rap TAP! Rap tap tap taptap-a-rap slap TAP!_

"_SAROS!"

* * *

_

I woke slowly, in the groggy way that meant I had nothing urgent to do for at least a few hours. As I swam slowly back to consciousness, I became aware of why I was so reluctant to wake up. My shoulder began to throb as though in retribution for putting it through so much in the past days.

I groaned in a fruitless attempt to fend off the hurt. Then a bleary figure that I dimly recognized as the physician at Badon Hill bent over me and I felt a cup against my lips. I drank the bitter liquid inside and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

The next time I came around it was dark, but not late. The pain in my shoulder was lessened to a steady ache, and I knew I was awake for good. I spotted Ru lounging in a chair drawn up by my bed.

"How long?" I tried to say, but all that emerged was a kind of strangled croak. I hated fever. I could never talk afterwards, or do much of anything for that matter. I took a whiff of the cup he offered me but could detect nothing to make me sleep, so I drank. I was tired of sleeping, which was a silly thought, but there you are.

"How long since you left the Wall, how long since you were ambushed, or how long since you came back from the dead?" I heard Ru's wry voice. He spoke quietly, as though to avoid waking someone, and when I raised my head I saw why. Marrok lay still in the bed adjacent to mine and Carradas was slumped in a chair with telltale circles around his eyes.

Ru noticed where my gaze lay.

"He hasn't left since Galahad brought you both back. Bran has been slightly more reasonable, but he too has been in here for most of the time. You came back four days ago. Finally we had to drug Carradas before he would sleep, or he would have worn himself out entirely. He blamed himself, you know. For coming up with the plan and not knowing about the spy. Stupid idea, if you ask me, but no one does, of course."

I managed to keep a straight face. "Of course."

"Where are the others?" I winced as I attempted to prop myself up against the pillow. Ru was at my side in a moment, brow creased in concern. That told me more than he meant it to. They'd been worried sick. And no wonder; they'd thought us dead, after all.

"Lancelot is in the tavern – where else? – with his women, and no doubt Gawain is there with him. It was my turn to watch over you two. Arthur is in the usual place, looking over papers, but I have it on good authority that Bersules is going to drag him out of there to drink with them soon. Balai is playing dice and winning against the Romans confident enough or stupid enough to challenge him, and Saros is whispering useless suggestions in one ear while Itaz is directing him in the other. Anyone else in particular you were wondering about?"

"Tristan?" I asked. His face grew grave.

"He left after we heard you were dead. He hasn't returned yet. I just hope he doesn't kill too many people before he comes back and finds out you're alive." _If he comes back_. The possibility was left unsaid, for which I was grateful.

"How is Marrok?" The younger knight looked pale and wan, but I could see his chest rising and falling steadily.

"He's fine. That physician is incredible. He took out the other arrowhead without any permanent damage at all. There'll be a nasty scar, but you know how it is. Sticks and stones."

I did know how it was. Anyone in the warrior life was guaranteed to have _some_ nasty scars. I had a feeling my own injury would end up as one of those.

I felt drowsy of a sudden. "You didn't drug _me_, did you?"

Ru grinned. "Hell, no. You're too dangerous to drug. You'd cut off my head for even thinking of it."

I nodded smugly. "That's right. I'm sorry, Ru, I just…" I yawned. "Can't keep my eyes open." I wasn't sure if he heard that last part, but I didn't have the chance to find out as sleep claimed me and I was lost to the world.

* * *

Three days later I was pacing slowly around my room. It was a gray day, drizzling, and the weather looked almost as miserable as I felt, but still I would rather have been out there than stuck in here.

"Are you sure you should be doing that?" Dee, my current guardian, questioned. I'd been moved up to my own room, but still had someone playing mother hen for much of the day.

"Why, no, I'm not sure at all. What do you recommend, Healer Dee?" I laid on the sarcasm as thickly as I knew how. I _hated_ being treated like an invalid. I wasn't as helpless as they apparently thought I was. I stuck out my lower lip and frowned. I knew it made me look like a petulant child who hasn't gotten her way, but I was too cross to care.

We heard some commotion in the hall. Then the door was flung wide and there, dripping on the doorstep, was Tristan. Dee made some excuse and slipped out, closing the door behind him and leaving the two of us alone.

Tristan looked horrible. His dark hair was straggly, plastered wetly to his face, where his face bore a hint of a beard. He shivered with cold but paid it no mind, staring at me as though he couldn't believe what he saw. But it was his eyes that caught my attention, eyes that were circled with dark smudges, and held within their depths a haunting fear that I would be hard put to explain.

I looked at him standing there and an odd relief filled my being. He hadn't been an active part of my life since that night he watched over me, but he had always been a rock, a solid wall at my back, someone who would face any danger by my side. I had feared for him these past few days. I'd missed him.

I swallowed an oath. It was all he needed to break out of his stupor. He crossed the room in two strides and pulled me into his arms, and I couldn't describe the feeling of coming home I experienced then, safe in his grasp. I told myself it was because he was my friend, my brother, in a way closer than blood, but somehow I knew it was something more.

For a minute he simply stood there, with his arms wrapped about me, reassuring himself that I was still here, and still alive. I ignored the jarring of my injured shoulder and the wet that was soaking into my clothes and let him.

What could have been called a sob shook his body, and then I did something I never thought I'd do. I kissed him. I touched his cheek, rough with the stubble of a week-old beard, and turned his face towards mine. I had to stand on tiptoe, but when I pressed my lips to his he groaned and leaned down, cupping the back of my head with his hand.

I slid my hands under his tunic, feeling the hard muscles that clenched under the touch of my fingers. He broke away for only a moment and doffed the wet garment. It wasn't the first time I'd seen him bare-chested, but I splayed my hands against the smooth skin there as though it were.

He walked me backward toward the bed, his mouth never losing contact with mine. I felt the bed frame hard up against the backs of my knees and sank backward onto it. One strong hand supported my back while the other worked the laces at the top of my shirt.

His cold hands came into contact with my bare skin and I gasped. He kissed the spot his fingers had touched.

"No," I managed to say.

He pulled back, hiding his hurt. "No?"

"Not here. Not now. I'm wounded, you're going to catch cold..." I kissed him again to be sure he knew I wasn't rejecting him.

He touched my face gently, as if afraid I would break or fade away. Behind his eyes I saw the exhaustion he had pushed back through sheer force of will. He let me up, and I picked up his discarded tunic and hung it on the windowsill so that it might dry. I built up a fire to fend off the cold and thaw his frozen limbs.

"Sleep here. There will be enough time for you to report to Arthur and to do whatever you need to _after_ you've rested." He didn't protest, and I turned away to prod busily at the flaming logs with a poker so he could remove the trousers that were still wet from the rain outside. I glimpsed well-muscled thighs and slim hips before I did, and found myself blushing fiercely.

_Stop that,_ I berated myself. _You might still be a maiden, but that doesn't mean you have to act like a giggling featherhead at the sight of a naked man._

I heard the sound of him sliding under the furs that covered my bed. When I was sure he was decently covered, I turned back and hung up the black trousers alongside the shirt. Then I reached for the sword he'd dropped when he came to me, and propped it up next to the bed where he was already drifting off.

His hands trapped mine between them. "Isolde?" he murmured. I knelt next to the bed and felt the warmth of being needed wash over me.

"What is it, Tris?" I had never called him Tris before. In fact, I rarely called him much of anything. I clasped our gathered hands with the other. His were still clammy from many days in the cold and wet.

"Don't leave." I didn't know if he was meant not to leave the room or not to die and leave forever, but I had no intention of doing either.

"I'm not going anywhere. Just sleep." And despite the banal phrasing, I meant every word.

* * *

For several weeks after we returned, battered and bruised but miraculously alive, the far end of the stable was closed to us. Whatever Arthur had up his sleeve, the fort carpenter, the blacksmith, and the architect were all in on it, but were sworn to silence.

They all seemed quite amused by the whole thing. Even Arthur looked cheerful and mischievous at the oddest of times. To top it off, I caught a nice girl by the name of Eithne leaving Arthur's room one morning. It seemed his secret wasn't the only thing he was enjoying.

For days on end, the three craftsmen would go through the door in the hastily erected barrier, lock it behind them, and begin hammering and sawing and pounding until sundown. Several times we saw the smithy and his apprentice ferrying large metal pegs that vaguely resembled massive nails to their temporary workshop, which only served to make us more curious.

However, not one of them would even squeak when we tried to get it out of them, even when we threatened them with the most gruesome of fates.

* * *

_MUSE…_

A passing peasant paused when a terrible scream rent the air, coming from the direction of the knights' stables.

"What was _that_?" he exclaimed to his cousin, whom he was visiting. He'd arrived in the town only two days earlier.

"Oh, I suspect it's only the knights trying to make the fort's architect tell what Lord Arthur's up to." His cousin said, carrying on his way and not sounding perturbed in the least.

"It sounds like they're killing him!" cried the first in dismay, eyes wide in shock and horror.

"Why, yes, it's meant to," replied the cousin. "Come, we have to get these loaves to the market or Mhairi will have my head."

* * *

_ISOLDE…_

That particular incident had met with no success whatsoever, as the architect quickly figured out what we were up to. Saros had looked sheepishly up at the craftsman when he pulled open the door of the stall where Ru, a brazier, a hot poker, and a juicy haunch of venison sat with the young knight. Grinning, Ru touched the poker to the haunch and Saros let out a deafening shriek.

"Please, no more, I beg you, NO! AIEEEEEE!" He imitated the lower baritone of the carpenter.

The architect, an older man with a rather long, white beard, had shaken his head at us and left the stables. Down came the poker again, and Saros hollered loudly at his retreating back. I could've sworn there was a glimmer of a smile on his face as he hitched up his trousers and left the stables, whistling merrily. Saros looked at me, standing at the door of the stall and shrugged.

Who knew the little rascal had such a powerful pair of lungs?

* * *

"Ho, Quin, how fared the fort in my absence? Did the women miss me? Did they pine for me and refuse all sustenance in fits of grief? I have heard their piteous cries with the ears of my heart." Lancelot pressed a hand to his chest.

"Watch it, boy, or you'll find yourself with more than woads to worry about." Quin was clearly amused.

"If his heart heard half as much as he says it does, perhaps he'd grow a conscience." Tristan murmured so only I could hear. "Or a brain," he added as an afterthought. I snorted and quickly turned my laughter into a long and transparent coughing fit. I could tell that no one was convinced.

We passed through the outer wall to happy welcomes from the villagers. It had been a successful mission, though I hadn't been allowed to do any more than ride with the main group, an order that made me almost as testy as my equine counterpart. For one reason or another, Arthur had brought along our entire company, though it was only a simple matter of watching over a supply caravan along some roads to the south.

But what his motive was, we would find out soon enough. We'd gathered in our usual place in the hayloft that same afternoon in late Augustus. I lay on my back with my head pillowed on Tristan's stomach as he played idly with the plaits in my hair, illuminated by the sunlight that poured in through the open door of the loft. I had my eyes closed and was nearly asleep in the heat of the day when Jols stuck his head up over the edge of the loft. I lifted my head off of Tristan to better hear whatever the squire had to relate.

"Arthur calls for you. He says he has something to show you all, something you'll very much want to see."

With his cryptic message delivered, he ducked back down. He was thoroughly gone before we could question him further, and we'd no choice but to make our way to the hall where we ate our meals and which we used as an official gathering place. Bors muttered to himself, presenting multiple guesses as to what our leader had in store for us.

I saw Vanora hanging up the last of her washing and invited her along with a gesture. Doubtless she'd be as interested in this surprise as her lover was. Though we still weren't exactly chummy, we'd struck an accord, balancing feminism and respect as a truce between two of the few unmarried, honest women within the fort's walls. Mostly honest, anyway.

She left the basket in the dust and came up to my elbow, asking the cause of the invite with an arch of her eyebrow. I shrugged and rolled my eyes. Sometimes it was nice to have these moments of understanding with another woman.

Arthur was waiting outside the closed doors of the hall with Jols, looking as pleased as punch with himself. I noted the common expressions of impatience blooming on the faces of my friends, and felt the same creasing my own brow. It was time for him to stop playing this game and just spit it out.

"What's this about, Arthur?" Wynn voiced the question I wanted to ask.

Our lord grinned boyishly at us. It was times like these when I remembered he was only three years older than me.

He gestured toward the doors, where two Roman regulars stood ready to open them on his command.

"The fruits of our labors, and another step toward brotherhood." The words were formal, like he'd decided on them only after careful consideration. I was sure he had. That man did nothing without much forethought.

He nodded to the soldiers, and they heaved open the heavy wooden panels that we knew so well.

I was near the front, or I would never have seen anything with all my lads towering around me. As it was, I had to elbow my way through the first rows and shut a few gaping mouths before I saw the room in its' glorious entirety.

Gone were the woolen wall-hangings and low trestle tables. So, too, were the sputtering oil torches with their thick, black smoke and the crackling rushes underfoot. In their place there were strange, woven creations that looked to be softer than lambskin or ermine. Adorning the walls were new tapestries of fine cotton thread that attracted the eye to brightly colored fairytales, and lamps of oil of the best quality that provided an even, clear flame. Even more precious were the glass globes that surrounded them.

But all of these warm, homely details were lost in the wonder of the table before us. We filed in, oblivious to all else in our state of curious wonderment.

In its' center was a great brazier, larger than any I'd ever seen, cold in the summer heat but sure to warm the most frozen of wanderers in wintertime. Round it stood what resembled a great, flat wooden ring on stout oak legs that curved in fantastic designs. I saw the hand of the British artists in the embellishments around the edges, but the real art was to be found on the polished black surface.

Copper motifs embossed the fine timber. Symbols of half-forgotten Celtic gods, and also the signs of the Christian Higher Power, Arthur's god, interspersed with the marks of our own deities. A horseman on a deer for Afsati, the magic pipe of Azamas, the hybrid woman with snake arms and bird wings, hair plaited in two long ropes of coppery thread, that depicted Komarovo. There was a miniscule herd of cattle to honor Falvara with Tutyr the Wolf snapping at their heels, the moon of Jázon, and a large sun dominating every man's place, as Khors dominated every realm.

He'd thought of everything. The dear man, he was brilliant and wonderful and every other good thing that could be said of a human being. I hesitantly traced the names inlaid in the marvelous construction. My fingers stopped on Huddan's name, the first of tento leave us. My heart filled with the tears that I could not yet shed and I looked up at Arthur's smile of anticipation and met it with a strange smile of my own, neither joyful nor sorrowing.

When Arthur spoke, he spoke quietly, so as not to break the reverent silence that had fallen upon us. "Knights," he said, "Look around you. We are brothers. In this room, I am not your commander, or your lord, or your leader. My place is the very same as yours. Yours is identical to that of the man next to you. For men to be men, they must first all be equal. And women," he conceded with a nod to me.

"In this room, we are each only another being who walks this earth. Let us never forget this moment of equality and rejoice that we are here and together and whole, and remember and honor those who are not." There came a general murmur of assent. Unlike those he'd spoken before we entered the reformed hall, these were entirely spur-of-the-moment and heartfelt. I looked back down at the names I traced with gentle fingers.

My inspection came to a halt at my own name, _ISOLDE_, carved deeply into the wood and shining like gold. This was my place. This was where I belonged. For once, it felt right to be here, in this hall at Badon Hill, on this island that was Britain. For once, it wasn't just a word. I was home.

* * *

Arthur ordered a fine feast be prepared to celebrate the completion of the Round Table. The men who, with skilled and able hands, had fashioned this symbol of our equality sat amongst us at the places of the fallen knights with minimal friction from the others. So, too, did Vanora sit with Bors for this one evening, sharing from his platter like the ladies of the old halls had once done. With a little stretching, I could almost imagine that we were all together again.

The food was beyond wonderful, and as I drank from my bronze goblet and absentmindedly fingered the copper inlay where my name was writ, I speculated that finer could not be had in a king's hall.

When the food had been carried away or devoured, Bors pushed back his chair and bellowed, "Shut _up!_" in his usual blunt way.

"Vanora and I… have somethin' we wanna say." He obviously had something on his mind, and had given this much thought, but wasn't quite sure how to go about it. Vanora took matters into her own hands. I idly sipped at my ale.

"We're having a baby." She couldn't have astounded me more if she'd cracked me over the head with a staff and danced naked on the tabletop. I choked on the mouthful of ale and coughed loudly. Whatever I thought Bors wanted to announce, it wasn't this.

There was a moment of awed silence. I suppose we'd all become accustomed to the end of life that a new life seemed almost alien to us. It certainly seemed that way to me.

Finally Wynn clapped, and Marrok whistled and hooted. That set the rest of us off and we wasted no time in pounding Bors on the back and in my case, hugging both him and Vanora enthusiastically.

"A whole new generation to torment," Lancelot reveled happily.

"You're not gettin' anywhere near my kid, Lance, so forgit about it." He used the slang term for child. Lancelot narrowed his eyes at his arch-rival. "This babe's gonna be as strong and fearless as his papa," Bors bragged.

"He certainly is," interjected Lance, "because he's mine. I meant to tell you all, Vanora and I are secretly lovers and she's having my love child."

Bors' face turned ruddy and he balled up his fists. "Say it again and I'll bash yer face in," he warned. "You stay away from Vanora, hear? She's mine. And so's my son."

Lancelot's eyes lit up at the success of this new game, and he pestered Bors some more before letting the matter go in a rare show of self-preservation.

I frowned. Who said his firstborn was going to be a boy? I didn't want this child to feel unwanted if it turned out to be of the female variety. I tried to pretend it was basic humanity, but inside I knew I was quickly warming to the idea of having a little "niece" or "nephew" running around the fort, making who knew how much trouble. I never realized how much I missed the carefree laughter of happy children. The young ones hereabouts had far too much experience with tragedy.

I saw Vanora mirroring my frown and for a moment our eyes locked in perfect understanding. Then Ru called something to me and the mood was broken.

* * *

Our stomachs full and thirst renewed with the need for celebration, Arthur called for wine, something we didn't often have. When our cups had been filled, our leader got to his feet and took up his drink. We followed, and I ignored the twinge in my healing shoulder.

"To peace and health, and the finest knights in the known world!" He toasted. We gave forth a cheer that echoed through the fort. We happily drank to that. Kuluk stood next.

"To Bors and Vanora, if they have one babe may they also have ten!" I smiled amiably as I lifted my cup to my lips. The next was from Bran.

"ToMarrok and Galahad. We're glad to have you back with us, and safely out of Sad's clutches, if only for extra target practice." We roared with laughter and drank again. We all knew what was coming next.

When it came, it was Kei who spoke, surprising me. We'd never been particularly close. "To Isolde, the prettiest girl we'll ever meet, the deadliest fighter we'll ever face, and the best and most loyal friend a man could have."

But before they could shout approval and drink for the fourth and final time, there came a derisive snort form the entryway.

"A good and loyal friend, is it? Funny, that. All I see is a fake, and a dirty traitor to her people."

My smile faltered as I turned to the speaker, and died altogether when I saw his face.

I stumbled back with a choked cry, knocking over my chair. My breath caught in lungs frozen with shock and a measure of fear. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't do anything but stare at the ghost of my long-dead past come back to haunt me.

I never noticed my brothers' questions or the threatening way the advanced on _him_ with demands of who he thought he was. I only saw the burnt and crumbling corpse clutching a familiar knife in the midst of the wicked, greedy flames that claimed my village. I didn't feel Tristan, standing next to me, catch up my hand in an effort to anchor me to the real world.

"Now, now, Isolde, you know who I am. Come and give your betrothed a kiss."

* * *

End Chapter.

Oooh! Gatalas is back! Remember him? Now, how do you suppose he escaped from the village unscathed? You'll find out in the next chapter! I can hardly believe it how evil I am.

For something more solid, I've decided to base Badon Hill (or more accurately, the fort there) at the town and wall fort of Corbridge, which is around the middle section of Hadrian's Wall. If you looked at a map, you would find that that particular part of Britain is fairly narrow.

And the lovely romantic friction between Tristan and Isolde… I was so tempted to put them together right there, but that would be just a bit too easy, for her to just jump him and get it over with. Hell, I would've jumped him already. I'm impressed with her self-restraint. And it really _wasn't_ the right time. Sorry, folks!

I'd like to thank **plzkthx**, who seems to be trying to be that special someone who reviews first and foremost every time I post a chapter. I love habitual reviewers, although I myself am nothing of the sort. So just for fun, and because I'm feeling benevolent, this chapter was dedicated to you, **plzkthx**. You're the best kind of reviewer – the dedicated, helpful kind! (hint, hint)

And before I forget, thanks also to **Scouter **for your continued support of my story. While I love getting suggestions from people, your short and sweet reviews can make my day just knowing that there's someone out there who thinks it's just that good. And also to **Hera's Vengeance**, who has a way with compliments that make me blush and say: Oh, stop. No, really, I mean it. Oh… well… okay.

I actually had to actively restrain myself from posting this right away, but… eventually, I gave in. I was going to wait till Saturday, but… I just couldn't do it. Damn my innate desire for everyone to like me (unless they're assholes, in which case I _don't_ give a damn)!

What? Don't look at me like that - it _is_ rated T for a reason.

**Ribhinn**


	7. VII

_"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."_

* * *

**Peace of Mind**

"Gatalas," I gasped.

"That's right, my dear. I'm so very glad you remember me. It's been quite awhile since last I saw you. How long? About four and a half years now, isn't it?"

"Please, Gatalas… Not here. Not now." I knew I was begging, but at the moment I didn't give a damn.

His eyes hardened. "Here. Now. Or half a world away fifty years from now. Or whenever I damn well please."

"Gatalas, I never meant to-"

"_Do you even know what you've done!"_ He thundered wildly. I saw then the raw pain and anger that had lain dormant in his soul for so long, gathering force with the years, and it frightened me.

"It is time for you to leave," Lancelot ground out. None of them knew the reason for his visit or his accusations save Arthur and Tristan. I desperately wanted it to stay that way, but now that Gatalas had come I knew he would not rest until they all learned the truth and turned their backs on me.

In a matter of moments all of my old fears had awakened and I found myself withdrawing from their company, taking with me the trust I had bestowed on all of them. I thought I'd gotten past this distancing that was my natural defense against pain.

Gatalas sneered, reining in his temper with fierce control, something he'd never had when we were children.

"Not till the treasonous bitch answers me something." He never took his eyes off of my face.

"Tell me, Isolde. Why did you let the Romans past our borders to slaughter our tribe? Why did you leave the bodies where they fell like so much garbage, and then take up with the murderers?" His voice grew soft, and it tore into me like the hurt I had inflicted on him. "_Why?_"

I closed my eyes as surprised murmuring broke out among the knights. _So,_ I thought. _So._ After so much worry and guilt, after so much time, my secret was finally out.

I heard the angry hum starting up among them as they realized what he'd said. _Romans? _They must have been thinking, _but Isolde said her tribe was killed by Huns. She lied to us!_ Tristan's hand tightened around mine, but that was the only outward sign of anger he showed.

I shoved thoughts of the knights' reaction to the far reaches of my mind and concentrated on Gatalas.

My former betrothed looked little like the proud, happy young Sarmatian boy I remembered. He was tall, taller than Lancelot, so that he positively towered over me. His face was newly shaven, revealing a strong, smooth jaw and high cheekbones, marred by a long, puckered scar by his left eye. His eyes were the same, a startlingly clear gray, but the fine laugh lines that had creased his young face had been overrun by four years-worth of single-minded hatred, hatred that was aimed solely at me.

I thought of the Romans I'd raged against for four long years, who slaughtered innocents to initiate a war between two opposing threats to the Empire that would decimate one, if not both of the peoples. Who without a thought of the consequences broke a peace treaty made by our forefathers two hundred years ago, an agreement that sold an entire population into slavery and which even now we carried out.

I thought on this and realized how far I'd come from the young girl who was prepared to die, who _wanted_ to die to gain absolution for her crimes. In my four years here I'd gone from that to the young woman who desperately wanted to live. In the face of the solid blame he laid on my shoulders, and mine alone, I struck upon a notion that shocked me out of my lethargy.

_It wasn't my fault._

I stepped out of Tristan's grasp, feeling otherworldly and suddenly self-righteous such as I hadn't felt… well, ever.

I lifted my chin and firmed my jaw and said, "This is not a thing for all ears to hear."

The words seemed to come from far off.

"I told you, whenever or wherever I-"

"No." The surety in my voice stopped him. Indeed, they all focused their full attention on me. "This is not a thing for all ears to hear."

I stepped up to the door and was about to push it open when behind me I heard a sword sliding out of its scabbard and spun around. Lancelot had his weapon out and pointing directly at the heart of the man I once loved.

Gatalas laughed mirthlessly. "You've even got your own army of conquests, now, haven't you? Only you would choose friends who would attack a cripple without provocation." And he pulled the cane he'd been reaching for from the leather holster strapped to his back and limped slowly toward me.

Lancelot looked embarrassed. "I thought he had a weapon," he explained defensively when all stared at him. Gatalas ignored him and looked only at me.

"Do you see what your treachery has reduced me to? But now, lead on, my dear," he mocked.

I saw Tristan come forward with intent to accompany us. There was anger in his eyes and I couldn't let his protectiveness get in the way of the meeting that seemed to hold the key to reconciling my past. I shook my head curtly, and he stopped. I saw the pain I'd caused him in his eyes and for some reason it made me want to weep.

But Arthur soon made it clear that he didn't want me to go alone.

"Isolde," Arthur glanced around at the angry unease on the men's faces and sighed. Clearly none of them would do, and Tristan, who at least knew part of the story, looked more liable to stab Gatalas as to listen to him.

His decision made, Arthur turned to me. "I'll come." I didn't think Gatalas would harm me, but I acquiesced. If it would help soothe their ruffled feathers, I didn't suppose it would hurt.

And so the three of us departed from that wondrous hall together, and behind us we left our brothers-in-arms, strangely silent, in our wake.

* * *

When we reached Arthur's chambers, the lord himself shut the doors and barred them with a heavy sigh. He turned around and I was happy I had refused Tristan's company. An optimal scout though he might be, people often died when he became truly angry.

As it was, I momentarily feared for Gatalas' life when my commander faced us. His fury was so tangible that it drew white lines around a mouth pressed tightly together in an effort to hold back his anger.

"You," he pointed at Gatalas, "don't talk." There were times I loved Arthur's ability to command. This wasn't one of them. I, myself, wanted to know a few things from my countryman.

His voice softened, though the white lines did not go away. "Isolde, you know I never understood why you kept your secrets from the others," he said.

"Probably too ashamed to admit what she did," Gatalas shot bitterly. He shut up when Arthur turned a baleful eye on him. So his air of command wasn't _that_ bad a thing.

"You know I never understood it, but in this case I think it's done more harm than good. I don't think they'll give a damn about the fact that you shirked your duty, but not telling them – especially that they were Roman – has definitely weakened their trust in you."

"It was a good deal more than shirking her duty, as you say. She handed us over to the Roman dogs who came to destroy our tribe. Because of her, they succeeded."

Arthur considered us. "Isolde, do you want to tell it?"

I didn't have to ask what he meant.

"I don't know if I can do it again, Arthur. Not now."

"Then I'll tell him." But before he could begin, the Sarmatian man sneered. "Just like a coward," he said.

I straightened my spine in an unspoken protest to the accusation.

"Fine," I snapped. He wanted to hear the truth from my own lips, and so hear it he would. The whole damn thing.

He wanted to hear it, wanted to know, and so I told him.

The whole damn thing.

* * *

When I finished, just as dry-eyed and toneless as I began, there were tears I couldn't explain coursing down his face, like the skies that rain for no other reason but that Don-Bettyr weeps. I barely registered the sound of the door closing quietly behind Arthur.

His cheeks still shone wetly, but he soon regained his composure and cast aside the weakness that had come over his anger and at last gave me the answers I quietly longed for.

"I escaped purely through the grace of Azamas. I'd taken a bad sword cut to my leg, and could only drag myself to my horse. I passed out once in the saddle, and Khankhusy took me to my mother's village. They took care of me in the months it took before I was able enough to ride out. I spent two years wandering, until I found out that _you_ were alive, and so I knew what you must've done. It took me another year and a half to track you to Britain, and then another four months to find you here. I came with only one goal in mind, and that was to _kill you._"

"The things you say may be the truth," he said, "but no amount of truth can excuse what you did. They are still only the words of a traitor." He turned his back on me, and so did not see the pain that must have been writ on my face as it was on my heart.

"I told you why-"

"I loved you." He said it so quietly, but he may as well have shouted it, for it cut me to my very soul. I made to step toward him, but stopped and instead gave him more words, but words more true I'd never spoken.

"I always loved you. Doubt everything I say, if you like, but don't doubt that."

He recoiled as if I'd struck him, and then turned and limped quickly from the room.

In that moment, I honestly believed I would never see him again.

* * *

That night I retired to my room alone, avoiding my comrades at all costs. In the shape I was in, I would have said something I'd surely regret.

I stripped off my shirt once I was safely in the confines of my room and unwrapped the binding about my chest with a sigh of relief. I reached for the ties on my trousers.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

I shrieked and twisted around, clutching my tunic to my chest in an attempt at maintaining my modesty.

"Tristan!" I hollered at the man lounging in the shadows. He watched me with a measured gaze, his eyes veiled behind a shield I could not penetrate.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He repeated.

"Tell you what?" I deadpanned, stalling for time. I _really_ didn't want to have this conversation right now.

"You know what!" he spat vehemently. "Your 'Huns' were Roman. Don't try to tell me you didn't know that. I saw your face when he said it, and there was no surprise there."

I bowed my head in shame. Perhaps I should have told him, at least. I said as much.

"Damn right you should have told me, of _all_ people."

"Tristan, when I said they were Huns that day you found me, I meant it. I thought they were. The tracks led off in the direction of Hunnish territories, the weapons were of Hunnish make, and their mark was on the _kibitka_… but then, before we left Gaul, that bastard Marcus Tullius told me the truth. And later, after the first battle, Arthur filled in the blanks, about how Rome hoped to start a war between our peoples to eliminate us. It just… didn't occur to me that I _could_ tell you. Any of you."

"Arthur knew…"

"He knew because it was confirmed in a meeting of commanders in Gaul before we arrived. I told him no more than what I told you, I swear it."

He was silent. I fervently wished that I could see his face.

"But _why_ didn't you…" He choked on raw emotion, and the sound made me want to clutch him to me.

"What? What could I have said that wouldn't have made you, not to mention the rest of them, declare war on Rome and get not only yourselves killed, but your families as well? Anything I might have told you would have ended with someone dead, and I couldn't bear that. I couldn't have said _anything_, Tristan, can't you see? I _couldn't._" Now I, too, was getting upset.

After a moment he spoke, and this time his voice was quiet, defeated.

"I was going to say – why didn't you tell me you were promised to another?"

I felt the weight of his words suddenly, and slumped down onto the edge of my bed, burdened with a new guilt.

He was right, I was _promised._ Not just betrothed; I'd given my word freely to Gatalas. That was almost as binding as marriage itself. And now, I felt as though I'd betrayed Gatalas thrice. First, by leaving my post and unwittingly letting the murderers through; second, by not believing in him and searching for him, instead leaving him alone, wounded, and grieving. And I'd betrayed him a third time, by falling in – it couldn't be love, could it? – at least lust, with another man.

I stared miserably up at him, this man who had stolen my heart when I was certain it was lost, and somehow turned me into a slave to his happiness.

But with that one sentence he'd made me feel broken inside. I loved one – with a lightening heart, I _knew_ it for love – but was still tied to the other, and he was one who would never release me from my promise.

"I-" I found I could not speak and tried again.

"I thought he was dead." Those five words were torn from my very soul.

"I believed he died because of me. I thought I'd killed him with my stupidity. Perhaps I _did_ kill the real Gatalas, and he is only dead inside now, but I couldn't even begin to describe the hell I went through."

Tristan released my wrist where he'd grasped it and stepped back, his eyes shuttered.

"You love him." I could tell it pained him to make the statement.

I chose my words carefully, aware that what I said in the next moments might define our relationship forever.

"I loved him, yes. He and I seemed destined to be together. We grew up together, best friends, and then he found his way into my heart of hearts and asked me to be his wife. I accepted gladly. He was the soul mate of my younger self. I did love him, then. But now…"

"Now?" In the darkness it was hard to be sure, but I thought I could detect a note of desperation, and certainly hope, in the word.

"Now… I love only you."

The hand caught my wrist again, drawing me up off the bed and to him. Fires burned brightly in his eyes and I shuddered under his gaze, still holding the shirt in front of me.

"That is all I need to hear."

And then he kissed me.

I nearly fainted with the sweetness of him. Just like the first time so long ago, he pulled away, and then plundered my mouth with the second. I dug my nails into his back, while the tunic fell to lie forgotten on the floor.

His tongue flickered behind my ear, and I clung tohim, afraid to try to stand on legs turned to jelly.

Then the bed was under me, and his weight made my already short breath even shorter, and we were no longer undressing but rather tearing the clothes off of one other in our haste.

And then we became one, with the stars shining brightly and the moon high in the sky, and all the troubles in the world far from us, for the night was ours alone.

* * *

I woke up slowly, reluctantly pulling away from a wonderful dream in which Tristan and I had – oh…

His dark eyes watched me wake, his head on a level with mine. I noticed with smug satisfaction that we were pressed together _very_ closely, with my legs thrown over his and his arm wrapped tightly around me, and his hand on – oh, my.

He closed the short distance between us and I shut my eyes and awaited his kiss. What I got was a peck on my nose and my eyes snapped open when he started to slide out of my bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting out of bed. What are _you_ doing?"

"Oh, no." I wrapped my limbs even tighter around him and threw my weight to the side, rolling us over so that I was on top of him, straddling his waist.

I leaned over him and let my hair fall across his chest in waves the color of newly-minted gold, or ripened wheat before the harvest. I whispered against his lips in between kisses.

"You're-" Kiss.

"-Not-" Another.

"-Going-" A much longer one this time. I came up for air, panting, and finished my sentence.

"-Anywhere."

He reached out and gestured with his free hand. The other was… occupied.

"It's morning. _Late_ morning. We have to get up."

I closed my eyes again and brought my lips to his.

"No, it's not. It's still night and we have plenty of time to do whatever we please." I allowed a wicked glint to come into my eyes. "I have a few ideas on that subject, myself."

"It _is_ morning. Look out the window."

I groaned as his hand slid lower.

"Is not," I said.

"Is too."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Not."

He flipped me onto my back effortlessly. I loved how he could do that. Then he leaned down and kissed me fiercely. I loved _that_ even more. When he finally pulled away, I couldn't see for the stars in my eyes.

"Too," he whispered, and rolled off of me before I could say anything more.

I pouted but laughed good-naturedly and dragged myself away from the warmth of my bed.

I watched him as he dressed, as I knew he watched me. It was a shame, really, that he had to hide that beautiful body with clothing.

He must have been having similar thoughts, because he said, "I hate to watch you put those on, when all I want to do is take them off of you."

"Funny," I laughed, "I was just thinking the same thing."

"You'd like to take them off of you, too?" He teased me.

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of stripping them from _your_ body, but now that I think about it, I wouldn't mind it either way."

He took me in his arms once again and pressed me up against the wall.

"We're not going to get very far at all if we keep this up." I pushed him away and was reaching for the doorknob when a terrible thought occurred to me, and stopped me in my tracks.

I turned slowly around and asked the question with a good measure of dread.

"Tristan," I said, "_What_ are we going to tell the others?" I could just imagine the mortification.

His only response was a rich chuckle as he took my hand in his, but somehow I was not reassured.

* * *

I passed the day as if floating on a cloud, and I knew Tristan was the same. I only smiled with the peace of relief when Arthur told me that Gatalas had left the fort. I couldn't have cared about anything at all, for my soul was lighter than air.

* * *

_LANCELOT…_

There was something strange going on with Isolde, Lance was sure of it. He'd pestered her for the better part of an hour, and yet the only response he'd gotten from her was a mumble of agreement when he'd asked if he could use Simargl for archery practice.

And then there was Tristan. The man had actually asked him if women liked roses or daisies better. In Lancelot's experience, roses had always been met with a good response, as he'd told Tristan.

So the scout had a woman? The idea was ludicrous. Oh, sure, he took the wenches to his bed, but never had he had more than a practical use for them, that Lance had heard. _Never_ had he heard of a sentimental attachment between Tristan and a woman.

Furthermore, Tristan had thanked him – _thanked_ him…thanked _him_ – for his advice, and then practically skipped off. It was highly unusual. It was confusing as hell. It was revolting.

Lancelot didn't like it one bit.

* * *

He liked it even less later that night.

He'd been minding his own business, with a drink in one hand and a whore in the other – his usual situation in the evenings – when he spotted Isolde coming in with a daisy in hand and an enormous smile spread across her face.

He saw her cast a glance and a raised eyebrow in Tristan's direction, which the scout returned with a raised cup.

Lancelot snapped his attention back to his own mug and downed it, then pounded it on the tabletop and hoarsely called for more.

It couldn't be. A whore no longer seemed like such a ridiculous prospect when placed next to Tristan and _Isolde_, of all people. Isolde was… was…

A girl, he realized as he watched her duck her head to hide a blush. No, more than that, a _woman_. How had he missed it? He'd known her for four years, how could he not have seen it?

It wasn't so much that she looked older as it was the way she carried herself, more confident, more at peace.

_That man better not hurt her,_ he thought, gripping his mug tighter. _I know how he is. He'll use her for his purposes and it won't even occur to him that she wants something more than one night, and then he'll break her heart without even realizing what he's doing._

He didn't even entertain the thought that she might want one night and leave it at that – Isolde wasn't a whore. He'd be damned if he'd let her be treated like one.

He decided right then and there that he'd have to be the one to keep Isolde from being hurt by the scout's coldness. _The trick,_ he thought as he watched them, _is to keep her away from Tristan._

Lancelot stood slowly as Isolde made her way toward Tristan, finishing off his drink and setting it and the whore aside as he did so.

Before she could reach Tristan's side, Lancelot called, "Isolde! Come and sit with us!" He intercepted her and whisked her off to his table without even giving her opportunity to decline, while she cast an apologetic glance at her lover.

He caught sight of the daisy twirling in her hands and scowled as a sudden realization occurred to him. Hadn't he told the scout to give her a _rose_? What the bloody hell had he asked for if he hadn't intended to follow his advice anyway?

_Ah, well_, the knight thought to himself. _It's just as well. After all, it's not like I _want_ him to succeed now. He'll just have to fend for himself._

As Isolde sat beside him, Lancelot mentally patted himself on the back for a job well done. If things continued to go as planned, the other knight would never get a chance to harm her susceptible female heart.

* * *

(A/N: I'm sorry, I despise mid-chapter Author's Notes, but... The following section is optional. I thought we needed a little humor after the whole Gatalas issue. If you feel it ruins the mood of this story, then pretend you didn't read it, and it was never there. I was writing in class and a bit of inspiration struck me, and I wrote this, but I'm not sure if it fits. So please, in your reviews, _please_ give me your **_honest_** opinion whether or not this belongs here. I love it, but I'd give it up without a second thought for the good of the plot, because _everything_ I do is for the good of the plot. I'm on the fence with this, and if you can push me off to either side, I'd appreciate it. Also, if I take it out I might post it as a one shot to accompany PoM, so folks can read it if they feel like laughing. Now, read!)

* * *

_ISOLDE…_

_Day 1:_

The next week was hell.

I couldn't even speak to Tristan now, for every time we so much as looked at each other Lancelot was there, herding one of us away from the other.

At first I thought he was just being attentive after the episode with Gatalas – although I still hadn't resolved the issue with the rest of them – but no, that wasn't it. Something was going on with him.

* * *

_Day 3:_

I realized what he was up to when I tried to sneak over to Tristan's room and Lance was suddenly busy unlocking his door at two in the morning, with not a prostitute in sight.

"Hello, Isolde. Fancy seeing you here. Where are you off to?" He looked hard at me.

"Nowhere, nowhere at all," I lied, and went back into my room to sulk.

Finally I left a note in the stall of Tristan's horse, short and to the point:

**Lancelot knows. – I**

His response, nailed to the inside of Simargl's stall door, was just as succinct, and even shorter.

**I know. – T**

**You didn't say anything, did you? – I**

**I might have asked him for advice on flowers. – T**

**Tell me you didn't. – I**

**I didn't ask him for advice on flowers. – T**

**He may be an idiot and a bit dim, but he's not stupid. – I**

**I have absolutely no opinion on the matter. None at all. – T

* * *

**

_Day 4:_

**I'm not going to live a celibate life. – I**

**I certainly wouldn't ask you to do _that_. – T**

**Good. – I**

**Good. – T

* * *

**

_Day 5:_

**I'm going to murder him in his sleep if he keeps this up. – I**

**Can I help? – T**

**No. – I**

**Please? – T**

**Go play with your toys and leave the murdering and terrorizing to me. – I**

**We certainly know who wears the pants in this relationship. – R**

**Ru! What the hell do you think you're doing? – I**

**Trying to sleep, but someone keeps hammering nails into the stable door. – R

* * *

**

_Day 6:_

**Didn't your mother teach you not to read other people's bloody mail? – T**

**Should he be talking to you like that, Isolde? – R**

**I was talking to _you_, Rumo son of Zinafer. I repeat my question. - T**

**No, she didn't. Did yours? – R**

**No… – T**

**Alright, then. – R

* * *

**

_Day 7:_

**Bloody cheerful son of a bitch. Here's another one I'd like to kill. – I**

**I'm definitely helping with this one, love. – T**

**Be my guest. – I**

**Before you kill me, you might want to know that the rest of us are going to threaten Lancelot with a horrible death if he doesn't leave you two alone, because we're tired of you dancing around each other all week, and frankly, the constant hammering is getting a bit irritating. – R**

**It's not _constant_. – T**

**You know? – I**

**I hate to spoil the surprise, Vix, but everyone knows. – R**

**Everyone? – I**

**_Everyone._ – R**

**Oh. – I**

**Do you think we should stop with the "secret" notes now? – T**

**Definitely. – I**

**Goodnight, lover. – T**

**I'm sorry, Tristan, but I don't think of you that way. – R**

**Shut up, Ru. I wish I were, Tristan. Goodnight. – I**

**Goodnight, Isolde. Sweet dreams. – R

* * *

**

The knights filed out of the Hall of the Round Table after dinner the following evening. Lancelot was first to the door, but found himself shunted off to the side as each man slipped past him. Even Arthur, who usually stayed behind with his seconds to talk – often that included me, if I wished, or if Arthur had something on his mind – left, closing the door behind him and shutting Lance in with us. I heard his muffled voice telling the guards on the other side not to open them to any voice but mine, and smirked.

The swordsman turned with quite a bit of trepidation – it looked like the others had done their job well and struck the fear of the gods into him. Or fear of us. Whichever worked best, I supposed.

"Now," I began, stepping forward. Tristan advanced from the other side, forcing the younger man to stand down. "You have been enough of a pain. Tristan and I are going to be together no matter what ill-conceived notions run through your head and out the other side. You will _not_ disrupt our time together. You will _not _stand guard over my door at night. You _will not_ attempt to sabotage our relationship."

"Isolde, you don't understand. I just don't want to see you get hurt. Tristan doesn't realize that you want more than one night. He'll move on and won't even know he's hurt you. I'm just looking out for you. Believe me, Tristan's not the one for you."

I stayed my lover with a hand on his arm.

"That's what this was all about?" I asked with cutting disbelief. "You thought he was going to harm my precious heart? That I wouldn't be able to handle a little pain? How insulting. I've been hurt a damn sight worse than that, and what makes you think I wouldn't understand just what each of us wants? Furthermore, if I want a one-night stand, I'll damn well have it. How the _hell_ do you know if I _do_ want more than that? Maybe I don't _want _to be tied to one man."

I snorted. "That's what was bothering you, wasn't it? You're being rather hypocritical, don't you think? Why, it's just what you do to the girls, spend a night with them and toss them aside like so much baggage the very next day. Lance, I love you, but you're an idiot."

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "I suppose I am, aren't I? To have been taken in by your sad story and believed what you told me." His mask slipped and I saw through his ruse.

"O, Lancelot. I know you never meant any harm. I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I just didn't want you all to hate me. I know I was selfish. I-" I knew now that his nagging all week was only covering up the reality that he'd been hurting inside. Just as Gatalas had intended, my secrets were driving us apart.

I hugged my arms around my stomach, drawing a cloak of protection about my shoulders to fend off the whirlpool of pain this subject brought up. "I think it's time to talk with all of you at once."

My voice shook when I called to the guards to open the doors. They did so, and I sent one of them to fetch my brothers.

When they came, I hugged myself tighter, as though against a cold wind. There was bad blood between us all now, and it was time to disperse it. Such was my task.

They ringed the table, although they did not sit. They all knew what this was about, somehow. Arthur was absent, but I didn't call for him. This was a thing to be discussed among us Sarmatians. His presence might complicate the matter more than it already was.

Tristan's arms slid around my waist, and I leaned gratefully into his chest, thankful of the reminder that I was not alone. I would never be alone, and this I knew.

"I know… I know that you've all been wondering. I know it's hurt you that I never told you the real story. I'm – so sorry. I was afraid that – maybe I am a coward, but I was afraid you'd reject me if you knew the truth."

"I was young for my years at fifteen. I'd never been popular with the few young men in our tribe, though Gatalas was my best friend. The other girls shunned me for my weaponry despite my efforts at sparking friendship between us – there hadn't been a woman warrior in our tribe for generations, and their mothers didn't want my habits to rub off on their daughters, who might be inspired to go off and get killed, I suppose. Yet I was good, and so I learned. My father had only one son, and he was a child yet."

"I became betrothed to Gatalas. I loved him, and he me, and we would have been happy together if life had continued as planned. I would have had children, and they would have gone on to be knights and the wives and companions of knights."

"That night, I dreamt a strange dream, and I still do not know the meaning of it. But I awoke calling out one word, a name: Batraz; the warrior who rode with the Nart brothers in our legends."

"Two weeks after I woke from that dream, I was on patrol to the northeast, but I left my post to daydream about my future husband. I know it is a terrible betrayal, I knew it then, but I was convinced nothing could happen. After all, it was only a few minutes. I wanted to gather a bouquet for my mother. Such is the blithe confidence of youth."

They were silent, and I went on.

"When I heard the shouts and saw the smoke, I wasted no time in running back to the encampment. But I was too late. I couldn't save anyone, not a single soul, and the murderers were long gone. You saw what remained, and how I might have thought the attackers were Hunnish skirmishers. The signs were plain. That alone should have alerted me that things were not as they seemed."

"We stopped at that village before we left Sarmatia for good; do you remember? There was a girl on the hill, who followed the tribe in order to survive. I met her; spoke to her, though she was called bad luck by the people she depended on, for her own tribe had died of a plague, every one but her. She called herself Batraz."

"Perhaps the name meant something, like I was on the right path – I cannot know. Then we went to Portus Itius and before we departed…" I thought of the cruel words of the Roman officer, and how I'd reined in my temper with sudden ferocity. Anger shuddered through me. I would kill that man one day.

"Before we left, he told me something… I remember it exactly, as though every word, every moment was imprinted in my mind." I gave them his words, and at the same time relived the memory as I told it.

"_It's a pity," he sneered at me, and I heard the menace in his voice and shrank back, "that the Romans didn't have a chance to have some fun with your bitch mother before they killed her. I hear your sister was good, up until they put a knife in the whore's heart. Your father took down only two as they planted the arrows of the Huns in the ground before he was also cut down. But you know, a dog is only a dog, after all, and must be disciplined."_

_I very nearly sank my sword into his evil heart right there, but I dredged up reserves of control that I never knew I had when Lancelot banged into my shoulder, reminding me to be careful. I mentally visualized tearing out his throat and feeding his balls to the hogs, or stringing him up and peppering him with arrows, and I_ really _wanted to claw his face with my nails and shriek and hurt him as badly as he and his have hurt me._

_But I did none of these things. Instead, I stood shaking with barely suppressed murder boiling in my soul._

_As he left, I turned glassy eyes on his retreating profile and managed to force out, "Watch your back, Marcus Tullius. One day I will return and destroy all you hold dear. There is one thing you cannot take from me, for I have not sold my soul as you have. Watch your back, Marcus Tullius, or you will find yourself in hell before your time."_

_His steps faltered only a moment before he turned a corner and was lost to sight._

I looked around at their dear faces, and couldn't see for the tears in my eyes.

"Arthur found out from the Roman messenger who came to Portus Itius before us, and after the first battle with the woads, when Huddan died, he told me why. He said that Rome hoped to begin a war between the Huns and Sarmatians, and finish off whoever prevailed before they could regain their strength, eliminating the threat of both peoples."

"Please, don't blame him. Arthur kept my secret because it wasn't his to tell, though he urged me often to tell you. He was right, as he always is. I'm – so very sorry I didn't listen to him. Hate me, if you like, and I won't blame you, but do not turn from him."

"And turn from me, if you like, but do not leave Isolde's side when she needs your love and support the most." I hadn't been aware that Arthur was in the room, but now he came to me and put his arms around me.

"It's over, Isolde," he whispered in my ear. "You are free of your secrets now. Let go your grief."

And then, with my lover's presence solid at my back and my friend offering comfort freely to me, after so much time in which my grief seemed too great for tears, finally, finally, I wept.

* * *

They forgave me. My head was still reeling from that as they filed out of the Hall. Lancelot stopped in front of me and hung his head.

"I'm sorry, Isolde. I shouldn't have judged you. I didn't know."

I clasped his arm with mine and laid my other hand on his shoulder. "I never gave you any reason not to judge me. It's over now."

Then he left, and Arthur with him, and it was only Tristan and I. He fidgeted – a highly un-Tristan-like behavior – until I smiled at him in an attempt to prompt him into voicing whatever was on his mind.

He took my hands in his. "You didn't mean what you said – about only wanting one night – did you?"

My answer was in my kiss.

* * *

Though they'd forgiven me for the most part – with some snide remarks from Zanticus, who had taken the opportunity to snub me at every chance he got – the trust between us was, as Arthur had foreseen, weakened by this new revelation.

I felt restless over the next few days, pacing around my room or up on the wall when I wasn't on patrol, or working with my group – which now numbered nearly one hundred of the Britons and poor Romans who had come from surrounding villages in the past three years to join our force – and overexerting myself in my own training to rid myself of the feeling of agitation that had come over me. It didn't work.

After the fourth day of this, I couldn't take it anymore. My village scouts sent a signal from the hill-post saying an imperial messenger was riding in on the East road. When he arrived with his caravan, I took myself down to the Hall immediately to wait outside until he finished with Arthur.

I waited for half an hour, placing my feet shoulder-width apart and my hands linked loosely behind my back – a stance I often took, and a comfortable position for waiting, as I was doing now.

The soldiers on duty finally hauled the doors open, and the man's eyes went straight away to my form standing directly in front of him, and I could just imagine what he saw. Young woman in black men's clothing, polished boots placed evenly, blonde hair twisted back into knot, strong face hidden by shadows, with eyes gleaming impatiently. He scoffed.

"Castus, you can't tell me that _this_ is one of your knights. A woman? And a pagan? It's bad enough that you decorate your hall with the symbols of their demon-gods."

I saw Arthur's hand curl around a paper already clenched tightly. "She is, and our best sword, though she's much better with knives in the dark." The man flinched, and I inwardly beamed with the praise. "A damn good scout, too, and second in archery only to one, and that one would gladly kill you for the way you're looking at her now."

I took my cue and advanced on the taller man, ignoring the height difference as I took out my smallest dirk and began trimming my nails, flicking the parings over my shoulder.

The messenger, a soldier, recognized the way I moved as the way all seasoned swordsmen did – with the cat's balance and tough strength that came from years of training – and recovered himself, brushing past me as though he'd never stopped.

"Arthur," I caught my commander's attention, "I must speak with you."

He raised an eyebrow, and I lifted one in return. Then he turned back and waved me into the Hall.

When the doors were shut, I began my pacing again.

"I can't _stand_ this!" I finally burst out vehemently.

Arthur furrowed his brow. "What's wrong? I thought everything was going alright with the others. Has someone said something?"

I brushed my hand across the table, my hand stopping of its own accord on the sun of Khors at Sagremour's place.

"They don't have to. I feel out of place, Arthur, like I should be doing something else. The woads are beginning to slow with their attacks, turning their attention instead to harvesting food for the winter months. There's little for us to do – we might get one or two more missions this year, and those will be minor ones. My fighters don't need me anymore, and Brangaine has practically taken over training sessions. She and Evan work well together, and can manage both the fighters and the village scouts. I feel useless here. And then there's the matter with Gatalas, which they've made their peace with, but it's still _there_. I have to get _away_, Arthur."

He turned his back to me and fingered the edge of the chair back beside him. I could tell something was bothering him – the tense set of his shoulders and the way his feet were planted unevenly told me that he was battling himself, as though he fought against a decision he knew must be made.

"What did the messenger want? He must have told you something important, to have you this worked up about it."

He looked up at me, a wry smile creasing his face. I didn't like the little lines forming at his eyes and between his eyebrows. He was growing old before his time, and he with only about twenty-four years.

"You're getting too good at reading me, Isolde. I didn't want to do this – I'm still against it – but… I just can't think of a reason _not_ to send you."

"Spit it out, Arthur. You know I hate itwhen you dance around a subject."

"Rome wants me to send one of my knights south with the caravan when it goes. They want a report on the progress of my knights and on the status of Britain's security, as I am now the ranking officer in the province of Britannia. Whoever I choose will leave within the week…"

I finished for him. "And won't return until spring. There's not nearly enough time to get there and back before the snows close the mountain passes, and no way to get around them. I'll have to stay in Rome for six months at least. And of course the reports of their own spies just won't do; they have to pull an able fighter from a Wall fort. Yes, that makes perfect sense."

He chuckled, which gladdened me for all my skepticism. "They're not spies if they aren't hidden, but otherwise I think you've got it just about right." His face turned grim.

"I know you probably don't want to go so far away, or for so long. If you don't want this mission, I can give it to someone else. I don't want to send you, but my reasons are selfish ones. You're the most sensible person here, and you can soothe my every worry and keep the men in line."

Arthur sighed. "But logically, you're the best choice. The others can't hide their hatred of Rome like you can, and frankly, most of them have no sense of diplomacy whatsoever. You were one of the best Latin students, and you are more aware of Britain than the others, through your troops and their families. Like I told the messenger, you're a better general warrior than many at the garrison, because you're a _smart_ fighter. You're less likely to get yourself killed if you get into a sticky situation, and as you've already proven, you're damned lucky." I didn't bother to try to hide the flush of pleasure his compliments caused.

"There's just no reason that you don't go, if you wish to, except that I know you and Tristan only just found each other. He might present a problem if I try to separate him from you. I suppose he could go with you…"

I thought on this and shook my head slowly. "No," my mouth said, though my heart screamed _Yes!_ It wasn't that I didn't _want_ him to come, but… "You can't spare him. When the spring fighting starts up and you're already down one knight, you're going to need him. You can do without one scout, but take away two and you're blind on both flanks. And Tristan will have to deal with it. I'll go, Arthur. You need me to, because no other will do the job as well as I can, and because I'm willing to go."

His shoulders slumped. "I think I was hoping you'd refuse. It would be much easier to send one of the others. You know they're going to be against your going."

"I know, Arthur. That's why I'm not going to give them enough time to give _you_ a hard time."

"You're not going to tell them?" he frowned in disapproval.

"I'm not _that_ stupid, Arthur. I know we're only beginning to come back together after Gatalas tried to drive us all apart. I'll tell them, just not yet. The night before I go I'll announce it. I'll tell them it was only decided that day. I'll make sure they know I requested to go, even if they don't understand it. I'll explain to Tristan. I don't want you to have to worry about him – any of them – fighting you over it. You've got enough on your plate."

Arthur held out his arm and clasped mine with it.

"You must be the best person I've ever met. About to leave everything you hold dear for many months, in a place where they could be killed by any arrow, and you tell me you'll convince the man you love to stay behind just so I don't have extra cares."

My eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and alarm, but I brushed off his comment uneasily. I felt like someone might have been rewarding me for something I hadn't earned.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur. You're a much better person than I could ever hope to be. There are many people within this very fort who are better than me. Don't give a mule a stallion's reputation."

But he gave me that solemn, stern look that told me he meant every word and said, "You might deny it, but just about every person in and around this fort would vouch for what I say – sans a few Roman regulars and Zanticus, who you know likes to stir up trouble, and who wouldn't vouch for anyone. You're a good person, no matter what crimes you've committed. Actually, your crimes make you that much better, if only because you've seen and done bad things, yet still gotten through it uncorrupted."

I mumbled some excuse and tried to will away the burning in my cheeks and in the tips of my ears. This blind faith they apparently had in me struck a strange sort of fear into my heart. It was trepidation, of a kind, worry that they thought so highly of me and were sure to be disappointed when they found I wasn't the saint they seemed to think I was. Then, too, I didn't want the responsibility of an idol. I just wanted to keep myself alive and get out of Britain and away from Rome as soon as I could.

Conversation dwindled between us. Finally I excused myself.

"I'll inform the messenger that I've chosen a knight to accompany him," he said before I left, eyes twinkling. "I'll tell him this knight is highly competent, and is to be treated with the utmost deference, or I'll have him busted down to _Discens_. I'll not have my warriors disrespected." He winked at me and I grinned, happily anticipating the man's sweating when he found out who his escort was to be.

* * *

That night I joined my brothers at the tavern, as I'd been accustomed to doing before we left on that rebel mission weeks before. Since then, I'd only come every once in a while, and since Gatalas visited, I hadn't come at all.

"Isolde!" _Why is it,_ I wondered as I always did, _that Ru is _always_ the first to notice my presence here?_

But then I felt my lover's dark eyes on me and smiled inwardly. Well, the first to acknowledge it, anyway. I made my way toward Tristan, stepping over Safrak's outstretched legs.

Suddenly I felt myself yanked backward, and my arse landed in someone's lap. I slapped a very drunk Gawain across the face – not _hard_, but with enough force to sting. Before I could say anything, I was hauled away by Carradas, who spoke to Gawain with harsh disbelief.

"What, do have a _death wish!_" He snapped, jerking his head at Tristan. I looked, too, and not _just_ for my own benefit. Though he was looking deliciously rugged tonight… right, Carradas, Gawain, death wish. I put aside unusually dreamy thoughts of my man and concentrated on the conversation between the other knights – one that was rapidly becoming one-sided as Gawain grew more and more soused.

Tristan had stood down when Carradas pulled me out of Gawain's grasp, though he still glared at the bigger man with so little love in his eyes. Since I wanted to spend as much time with him as I could – I gulped back the lump in my throat – as much time as I could before I left for Rome, I smoothed his hackles by gladly leaving Carradas to his own devices and joining my lover in the dark corner, where we could sit together undisturbed. Well, that was the intent, anyway.

"My lady." The intruder got no response.

"Lady Isolde."

I groaned and pulled my lips away from Tristan's, which were about to do something extremely detrimental to my attention span.

"Jols, if this isn't important, you are a dead man."

"Arthur wants to speak with you. He says it won't take but a moment, and then you two can go back to cuddling, or whatever obscene things you're doing over here, and no, he doesn't want to know."

I growled, and he held up his hands to show he meant nothing by it. "His words, not mine, so don't murder the messenger."

I looked into Tristan's eyes with regret and kissed him swiftly. "I'm sorry, love, but I have to know what he needs to tell me." His brows drew together, though he let me go after another searing kiss.

I approached Arthur where he stood at the entrance of the tavern, out of the way of those moving about.

He took me aside where no one could overhear.

"I spoke with the emperor's man. He told me he was leaving tomorrow morning, and you'd better be ready or they'll leave without you. I think my threat offended him." His attempt at humor fell flat against the anxiety in his eyes.

He took my hands and looked at me earnestly. "Isolde, are you sure? I can still find someone else."

I looked at Tristan, who was now sitting up straight and watching us intently. He knew that something was off. Tears filled my eyes as I watched him – a part of me still rejoiced that I could once again cry – but I blinked them back and firmed my jaw.

"I'll do it, Arthur. For you." He gave my hands a squeeze and stood back. I took a deep breath and reentered the bustle of the tavern's center. I kept my eyes fixed on Tristan's, though I did not go to him. I asked his forgiveness silently, my apology written on my face. He started and made to stand up, but I shook my head to clear it. I had to get this over with before they were too drunk to process it.

I rapped on a table and got little response – a grunt from Saros and a "Wot the hell?" from Kuluk, whose ale I'd disturbed.

I looked around at the oblivious, drunken knights and stamped my foot in impatience, then tried pounding fiercely on the stout surface, this time away from anyone's drink and much harder.

Clambering onto a bench, I bellowed, "SILENCE!" _There_, I thought as every man in the room turned to look at me. _That did the trick_.

"Brothers," I almost didn't want to tell them, just wanted to turn and jump down from the bench, run to Arthur and tell him I couldn't do it, couldn't leave them for so long. But I didn't. Instead, I started over, took it slow and steady while inside I trembled with the fear of the unknown.

"Brothers," I said, "I have news of great importance to tell you, but you won't like what I have to say."

* * *

End Chapter.

I didn't think I had it in me to be quite this evil. Nighty-night. Aw, shoot, it's only 4:30 for you folks back home, isn't it? Well, nighty-night to everyone in Europe, anyway.

I'm sorry I didn't make it to my usual 10,000 words, but there's more dialogue (including the notes) so the chapter should at least appear to be the same length.

**Ribhinn**

Review.


	8. VIII

_"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way." _

* * *

**Peace of Mind**

_MUSE…_

_Winter 442 A.D._

Tristan sulked. He'd been confined to his room for six days, under guard. He'd made such a scene when Isolde left that Arthur had threatened to lock him in his room unless he could contain himself.

But Tristan had been in such a rage that he had uncharacteristically lost his temper and thrown a mug at his commander's head, and Arthur carried out his promise.

So Tristan sat and sulked, torn between fury at Isolde and at Arthur, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. In another day Isolde would meet the ship that would carry her across the Channel and out of his reach.

He heard the door open, but he stood his ground, his only reaction being to cross his arms even tighter over his chest and thrust out his chin, an unconscious sign of his stubborn refusal to yield.

"Tristan," came Arthur's placating tone. The scout exhaled angrily and continued to stare out his window.

Arthur felt his own patience wearing thin. Granted, he had sent Isolde into hostile country on her own, but couldn't Tristan see that he hadn't had a choice? He needed his men here, could barely even spare Isolde, of _all _people.

"Listen, my brother," he tried again, moving into the room and shutting the door. "I am sorry, but I couldn't allow both of my best scouts to go off to Rome. You know you are both vital to our survival –"

"So why didn't you send someone else?" Tristan snarled without turning around. "Someone less _vital_."

"She's the most diplomatic of us all, and you know it," Arthur snapped. "Could you honestly say that anyone else could do as good a job as she without losing their temper? For God's sake, I was trying to prevent bloodshed, Tristan."

The scout turned to his commander, eyes blazing with a fierce light.

"You sent the woman I love to almost certain death!" He shouted with raw fury, his bone-deep fear finally surfacing.

"Calm yourself, man!" For the first time Arthur almost feared for his life as his knight's hands flexed convulsively, as though seeking to throttle someone – preferably him – of their own accord. "It's not as if she's going north of the Wall. This is Rome we're talking about – a place of civilization, where advocates of peace and freedom congregate… you know better than I that she can take care of herself!"

Tristan threw him a scathing look. "Have you forgotten her past? You gave her the way out she's been searching for all these years. The minute she gets there she'll start hunting the ones who killed her tribe."

Arthur had gone white and he clutched the bedpost for support. "But she only has orders to stay until spring. Such a venture could take years! It's not enough time for her to find the culprits and take her revenge."

Tristan's shoulders slumped. "But she knows who they are, doesn't she? You told her, all those years ago. And a large company like that… they'd be wintering either in Rome or some other city nearby. And as for time," his voice was strained, "she'll search until she finds them all, her orders be damned. She's counting on the fact that when she doesn't return on time, you won't report it, for fear of what they would do to her."

Arthur sank onto the cot, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "What have I done?" he moaned to no one in particular.

Tristan's anger faltered and died. "Arthur," he said with forced gentleness. "She'll be caught and tried for murder. If she kills an officer, it will be considered treason. She will suffer the most terrible death a warrior could have. You must do something to spare her that fate. Send me after her."

Arthur raised his head, his expression pinched and bleak. "Tristan, my brother. Forgive me my folly. Go, my friend, and bring her back to us, alive and well."

Tristan was already gone.

* * *

He sprinted into the stables, shoving past a surprised groom and a less-than-decent milkmaid. Tristan threw open the door to his horse's stall. The animal inside startled, but the scout ducked under the flailing hooves to heave his saddle across his mount's back, cinching the buckle underneath securely. He slipped the bit into the beast's mouth and hooked his sword and scabbard onto his saddle, slinging his bow up behind it.

"Tristan?" Arthur tossed him some saddlebags full of travel rations. Tristan pulled on a studded leather jerkin and strapped leather gauntlets on his forearms. His cloak he draped across his shoulders, pinning it under his ear and tossing it behind him.

The scout swung up into his saddle as the stable hands opened the doors so horse and rider could pass through. Arthur looked up at him with a silent plea, his hand braced on the horse's neck. He held out a piece of paper, sealed with the young lord's emblem.

"This should get you through any problems. It gives you my own authority. There is gold for bribes in that saddlebag. Keep in mind that Isolde was given the same thing, if it makes it any easier to find her. Good luck, my friend."

Wordlessly Tristan clasped the other man's arm in farewell. Then his commander's face fell away as he urged his horse into motion.

Tristan touched the plain ring he wore on his right hand, the twin of which adorned his lover's finger – wherever that finger, and all that was attached, might be. "Wait for me, my own," he whispered. "Wait for me."

* * *

_2__ months later__… __Early __443 A.D._

The first thing I noticed about Rome was that its streets were clogged with people. Vendors hawked their wares, farmers hauled goods to pay their taxes and make a profit with the surplus, and servants bustled by on errands for their masters. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry but one and all peered curiously at the strange female in men's garb, escorted by nearly half a century and led by a centurion in well-worn but brightly-polished armor.

I thrust out my chin in a show of mulish stubbornness, staring pointedly until curious eyes dropped to the ground. I gripped my sword hilt unobtrusively, my eyes flicking from one potential threat to the next.

"And I thought Portus Itius was bad," I muttered to myself. Rome was a hundred times worse.

The soldiers who accompanied me laughed and joked amongst themselves, their good spirits restored by their return home. When they met me in Gaul to escort Arthur's knight to Rome, most expressed shock and derision at my sex. As they pressed on, however, some had offered tentative friendship. For the most part, I withdrew from their easy camaraderie, but the open, friendly nature of Titus Arrius had rather won me over, much as I hate to admit it. The youngest of five sons of the _nobili__s_, he was rather slight and was cursed with the unfortunate _cognomen_ "Florus" – unfortunate, that is, for a soldier. I was often obliged to tell off my companions when they teased young Titus, calling him "Flora", even going so far as to reveal to him the terrible secret of my own second name, the Sarmatian equivalent of the Roman _nomen. _Oh, come now, as if I'm going to tell _you. _Although my wounded pride forced me to ignore him for three days when he laughed in my face, at least the revelation had put him more at ease.

"Is everything all right?" That selfsame young man asked, noticing my agitation.

"Are there always so many people?" I brought Simargl sharply to heel as he sidled toward Titus' gelding.

He chuckled. "We haven't even reached the city proper yet!" He sighed happily. "I've missed this place. The sounds and smells…"

"It sounds louder than an army of ravens and smells worse than all the woads of Britain in high summer," I snapped. In truth, everything about this place offended me. From what I'd seen so far, Rome was noisy and obnoxious, too warm for my heavy Northern attire and far too dry. The roads were either dust that was whipped into my eyes or stone, hard and uncomfortable underfoot. The only animals were domesticated beasts. It looked as if my skills as a scout would be next to useless here.

Titus, the cocky rat, blithely ignored my irritable response and hailed someone in the crowd.

He wasn't the only one who took note of my discomfort. I'd found another ally in the centurion, whom I had only heard called by the name Bren, or by his title in the case of his subordinates (with the notable exception of his officers). He was an easygoing leader whose background seemed shrouded in mystery, something everyone seemed to know but no one spoke of, and that I, although highly curious, had not been able to penetrate. He had sat with me over many campfires throughout the last months, sharing combat tactics and tales of battle, as well as a genuine interest in my people and my culture. He had made it clear to his men from the beginning that I was to be treated with respect in every sense of the word.

Now he looked at me with a knowing glint in his eye. "Keep that sword sheathed, unless you want to be arrested for disturbing the peace. I won't say there aren't dangers in the city, but your back is covered, at least for the next twenty minutes." I glared at him.

"Why, thank you, that is _ever_ so helpful. I feel so much more at ease knowing you'll be there to guard me from all the big, bad men."

Bren only laughed, curse him, and said, "Your itchy fingers aren't going to make a scene, are they? I'd prefer not to have to restrain you. You're altogether too dangerous for my liking. Oh, come now, calm down. I'm sorry, alright?" I sniffed and put my nose in the air as I pushed on ahead of him. Truth be told, I wasn't sure whether to be offended at his teasing or pleased that he thought me dangerous. As it rather suited my purposes to be perceived so, I decided to maintain that reputation during my stay in Rome. It would make life _so_ much more pleasant. Mollified, I slowed my pace and Simargl fell into stride with Bren's big bay.

He held up his hand to halt the column and turned to me.

"This is where we leave you." He said. So preoccupied with our banter had I been that I'd forgotten to keep track of our surroundings. I looked up and up at the grand building outside of which we sat, and swallowed hard.

"_Here?_" I asked incredulously. "Are you certain I can't stay in your barracks?" I was hopeful but not expectant.

As I thought he would, Bren shook his head in denial. "I'm afraid that isn't possible. In the missive Lord Arthur sent, he said you were a knight of the highest rank, his second-in-command. It wouldn't be appropriate and it certainly wouldn't be allowed, my lady."

I drew back, surprised. "What is this 'my lady' rot? You have ever called me Isolde, as a friend."

His mouth twitched. "And in this company, you will ever be 'friend'. But in Rome you needs must be 'my lady', for your rank as Artorius' second does outshine my own, albeit by a small margin."

At length I nodded curtly, grasped Bren's forearm, and raised my fist in salute to the rest of the company.

"Come and visit me," I told Bren with a wry half-smile. "I daresay I'll be bored within the hour."

* * *

I was right, although for reasons I never predicted. I blew out my breath noisily, exasperated. I'd been banished to this overly gaudy chamber almost directly upon arrival. I grinned at the memory.

_I__ knocked on the door, nervously twisting Tristan'__s ring around my__ finger. The door was opened by a blank-faced girl of about seventeen. The maid's eyes widened almost imp__erceptibly as she took in my__ unusual garb, but she made no mention of it__. I__ shifted under her close scrutiny._

_"Excuse me,"__ I__ began, "I am Isolde of the knights of Badon Hill, on the Great Wall of Britannia, under the command of Lucius Artorius Castus. I was told to seek lodgings here…"__ I__ trailed off as the girl ran off to some other unknown part of the house._

_I__ shrugged indifferently an__d steppe__d into the entry hall, where I__ stared, dumbfounded, at the lavish decorations and sheer abundance of _space_ it offered. How could just __one family need so much? I__ turned to inspect a painting so fine it looked almost real._

_"Surely this is the home of the emperor himself!"__ I murmured in awe, aware that I__ was playing the part of the country bumpkin quite well and rather genuinely._

_I__ heard the cli__ck of light footsteps behind me and turned, hiding my__ feelings behind a mask of utter composure.__ A sixth sense told me__ that __I__ must not let them see how intimidated and overwhelmed __I__ was by this life of luxury __they led, although I__ was not accustomed to showing those emotions in the least._

_I__ bowed, __studying the woman from under my__ lashes. The lady of the house – for that as what she clearly was – wore a bright smile. She was middle-aged, with one or two gray hairs and rouged cheeks. Two curly-haired young girls stood behind her, bouncing up and down with excitement._

_I__ bowed low from the waist, as Roman etiquette dictated._

_"You are most welcome here, knight," the woman simpered. "I am Appia Curia Flava, the mistress of this household. These are my daughters, TIberia and Vibia Curia Flava." The girls each bobbed in turn._

_I__ straightened. "I am very pleased to meet you all__,"__ I said, my__ tone devoid of any inflection whatsoever._

_The daughters' mouths dropped open as their mother's eyebrows drew together severely._

_"You're a _girl_," she stated with distaste. It became immediately apparent that this was a highly undesirable state of affairs, indeed._

_"Quite,"__ I__ matched her tone, trying to hide __my__ confusion at the woman's sudden change._

And so I was whisked off to this enormous chamber where I twiddled my thumbs in increasing irritation. I was about to walk out there and demand to know if this was how they treated their guests when the girl who had first answered the door walked in, followed by others bearing steaming pitchers of water and bundles of fabric. A large man with skin black as coal carried a big copper basin into the room. The hot water was poured into this and the purpose of the procession was finally made clear. The girl began picking at the ties on my tunic, but stopped when I laid a staying hand on her arm.

"And you are…" I prompted. The girl, whose copper skin and slanted eyes marked her as a foreigner, bobbed and mumbled, "Farah, your ladyship," before scurrying out of the room. Her behavior baffled me, but my curiosity was foiled by the arrival of a rather large, no-nonsense woman who briefly introduced herself as the housekeeper. The others left the room without a word.

Within moments I found myself in nothing more than my undergarments. While not a modest person by nature, I did feel rather affronted at the liberties this woman was taking with my person.

"It's quite alright," I ventured. The woman _tsk_ed and I began to get annoyed. "I _can_ bathe myself, you know."

"Milady's orders, lady knight. You're to be bathed and dressed properly before you go before the emperor. The Mistress wills it to be so."

My eyebrows shot up. "Does she, now?" I pursed my lips. "Very well. I will not turn down a bath, particularly not a hot one. It would be a pleasure to rid myself of the grime and stink of travel. However," I concluded sternly as the woman began to gather up my travel-worn clothes, "I _will_ wear my own clothing to this audience."

At the housekeeper's offended glance toward my dirty garments, I amended that statement. "Not those, of course. I have clean gear in my pack."

"But surely-" she began.

"But surely nothing," I stood firm. "Surely the emperor knows that I am a warrior, not a courtesan. I see no need to pretend to be what I am not, and never will be. Tell your mistress that is my final word on the matter. Although I do appreciate your efforts," I added, recalling my manners. "It is very kind of you."

She huffed and grudgingly acquiesced, but I had the feeling that my last words had mollified her.

When she had gone, I undressed entirely and sank back into the bath with a sigh of bliss, letting the hot water soak away the soreness of my travel-weary muscles. I closed my eyes and let go my surroundings.

Some time later, when the water had cooled to less than lukewarm, the same woman shook me awake. She had returned with a large bath sheet draped over one arm, which she used to dry me vigorously. Before she left again, she called in the girl Farah and instructed her to aid their guest in dressing. Farah bobbed to her and stood at the ready should I need her.

I picked up my pack and drew out my favorite clothes: a loose black tunic cut in an outdated but comfortable fashion, and a pair of black fitted trousers. The boots would have to do, dirty as they were. After some deliberation, I also laid out my baldric and sword belt. I wasn't fond of it, but in the interest of ceremony I would wear it. If I actually expected to fight, I'd wear the sheath that ran across my back that allowed me to reach over one shoulder – giving me easy access to the blade while the unorthodox location gave me an element of surprise.

Remembering the girl who still stood behind me, I spoke over my shoulder.

"Farah, was it?" The girl silently came to stand at my side. "No, that's alright," I said when she made to help me dress. "And from whence do you hail?"

The young girl looked startled. Up close, I could tell that Farah was much older than I had first taken her to be, closer to fifteen or sixteen rather than twelve. The girl looked up at me with guarded black eyes. "Parthia, your ladyship." She offered no more.

"How came you to be here?" I thought only to make conversation, but she looked at me as though I were insane.

"I am a slave, your ladyship. I was captured and sold to this family." _A slave_. Of course I had seen slaves in Britain, in the service of Roman lords; granted, Quin was once also a slave to Rome. But this girl would never see freedom, could not even hope for it, and that knowledge saddened me.

Casting about for something to say that would not hurt her pride, for pride she obviously had, I said, "Parthia… that is south of Scythia, is it not? I am Sarmatian, a relation to those same people. We are neighbors in a sense, you and I."

She smiled carefully at me, and I grinned back. "Please, sit. Tell me of your homeland."

She did, losing some of her protective reserve along the way, while I began to dress. Tucking my breastband in, I picked up my tunic only to find a garment thrust under my nose. "A _camisia,_" Farah said, shaking it out. I took the undertunic from her, touching the fine weave. It was a light fabric, cool against the skin, and I thanked her.

She smiled at me again and helped me pull it over my head. It was indeed comfortable, and I knew I would be glad of it when the weather began to turn.

I pulled on my trousers, buckling the belt around my waist and hooking my baldric to the belt so that it crossed my chest and supported the weight of my weapon. Under my sleeves I strapped a quiet knife, just in case. Of course I would not be allowed to wear my sword in the presence of the emperor himself, but I refused to enter unknown territory without a blade by me. Particularly when that territory is at the heart of my enemy's domain.

My hair, newly washed and smoothed with scented oils, curled damply around my face. I sat by the looking-glass and selected portions to braid in my usual style, but before I could begin Farah was there, gently weaving the dark blonde strands into a neat plait.

"_No_," I said, more harshly than I intended. "I will not tolerate nor patronize slavery. I have been slave to an empire, to the whims of a weak man who sits in his palace far above those he keeps as chattel. I won't take his place. I won't let you be my slave." The thought made me want to lash out at someone in a fit of helpless rage.

She put a hand on my shoulder, this young girl with the oldest eyes I'd ever seen.

"So let me be your friend."

* * *

When I was fully dressed, I made my way down to the kitchens, where the housekeeper – whom Farah had told me was called Agatha - directed the staff as adroitly as a legionnaire with his troops. I maneuvered around curious serving girls to confront the busy woman.

"Feeling better, are you?" She asked, taking in my appearance with a raised eyebrow but no other comment.

"Quite," I'd thought carefully of how to broach this, and decided that a straightforward approach would be best and arouse the least suspicion. "Tell me, Mistress Agatha," I said speculatively, "Is the Centurion Marcus Tullius in the city? I have an old friend among his men. I was hoping to see him while I was here."

"Why, certainly," she said, ushering a maid upstairs with a tray for her mistress. "In fact, I believe the man himself will be at the audience this evening. Perhaps you can ask him about this friend of yours."

"Perhaps I shall," I said, and thanked her. She began shouting in Greek, her native tongue, as she rushed to save a plate of freshly-baked bread that was nearly upended by an oblivious footman.

I left the turmoil and strode out the door, my heels clicking smartly on the marble floors. Stopping before a decorative mirror on the wall, I looked myself over in the glass, smoothing the wrinkles on my black trousers and adjusting the folds of the equally dark shirt to better conceal the knife I'd tucked into my belt at the last minute. I hesitated a moment longer to further smudge the kohl under my eyes and bared my teeth in a savage grin. Finally, finally I would have my revenge.

Servants scurried to get out of my way, but I paid them little mind. Slaves I could sympathize with, having been one myself, but it was beyond my powers of comprehension to understand why a person would freely choose to cater to another's whims. It grated on my Sarmatian sense of honor for one to so degrade oneself.

I found my horse and the manservant Mistress Appia had assigned to "guide" me – but I recognized the easy way the burly man moved as that of a trained warrior. I deemed that he was either my protection or my guard, but so far I was unable to decide under which category he fell.

"Lady Isolde," greeted my… well, whatever he was. "Spurius Octavius Corvus, at your service, my lady." He bowed to me, keeping his opinion of my mode of dress, whatever that might be, carefully concealed behind a blank mask. Most definitely not the average manservant, then.

I laid my cheek against Simargl's neck and spoke to him in my own tongue.

"The time has come to fulfill our purpose, dear one. I will find out what I can, and plot, and exact my revenge. No man of that company which slew my clan shall live, or die, without knowing fear, and none shall go unpunished."

The stable boy who held my horse stared at me. He stayed conspicuously out of reach of my horse's teeth, I noticed with amusement.

"Are ye _talkin__'_ t' that 'orse?" he asked incredulously, forgetting his manners.

I overlooked this lapse and answered him. "My people consider our horses to be as our siblings, our brothers and sisters of the steppe," I told him. "Yes; I keep him warm and fed and happy – or as happy as he can be, cooped up in a stall." I spoke more to myself than to the boy. "But our place is on the plains, with the wind in our hair and the ground flying underfoot."

I looked at him. "In return, he has saved my life on many occasions. Have you not, my friend?"

"An' who are yer people, then?"

"Enough, boy!" My escort snapped at the lad. "Forgive me, lady, but we must be going."

The boy gratefully relinquished the reins to me and stepped back as I swung easily up into the saddle. Spurius also mounted, and as we rode out the stable door, I flipped a coin to the stable lad, who tipped his cap to me in thanks.

The streets were difficult to follow, but I forced myself to memorize the route we took. Spurius said very little, but unlike Tristan's stoicism, his silence made me uncomfortable.

Finally the street opened up, and I looked up and swore under my breath. So this was where the powers of the world sat in judgment. It was incredible. More than incredible, it was… I remembered to breathe.

"Oh." I said, not even caring that I sounded like a dolt. I wasn't even aware that I had stopped until Spurius wheeled around and called for me. I gulped, staring in disbelief. How could it be that man had made such a thing? Surely the gods had placed it here, rather than a human hand. I fingered Tristan's ring. _Tristan, my love, how I wish you were here at my side,_ I thought.

Spurius called again and I nudged Simargl into motion.

"My lady Isolde!" I swung around in my saddle, my face already lighting up in a welcoming grin at the familiar voice.

"Bren – Centurion!" I corrected myself, beaming with real delight. The officer rode up to us.

"Its' all right, my good man, I'll take it from here," he said. Then, turning to me, "That is, if you don't mind having me as an escort." I responded to the twinkle in his eye with a full-fledged grin.

"On the contrary. I'd be honored to accompany you."

Spurius turned his horse so that he faced me. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, my lady," he stated firmly.

My guard, then.

Bren maneuvered between us. "But of course I would allow no harm to come to the lady, _sir_. Lady Isolde shall return safely, I promise you." His tone held steel. When the man remained undecided, Bren gave up all pretense of being polite. "You have been _dismissed_, soldier," he growled, confirming my suspicions.

Spurius cursed under his breath and left. I imagined he had been under orders to keep an eye on me, but even so my opinion of him had rapidly deteriorated.

As Bren took up the place on my right, his scowl dissipated into a smile. "Someone's been practicing their manners," he muttered to me.

"Arthur made us all learn Roman 'manners'," I told him. "If I had wanted to learn how the jackal acts, I would have taken up residence in his den. Miserable bastards, all of them," I groused.

He arched an eyebrow at me and I suddenly recalled that my friend was half-Roman himself.

"Oh," I said. "Well, of course I didn't mean _you._"

* * *

We passed through the gate practically unhindered. Bren, who was familiar with the layout of the palace, pointed out landmarks for me on the way to the stables. I stored them away in my mind in case I needed the information in the future.

The inside of the place was, if possible, even more elegant and elaborate than without. I tried to keep my eyes in my head, but such excess defied reason. Bren led me up a flight of stairs and to an elaborate door, beyond which I could hear the murmur of muted voices.

A herald stood by the door, and Bren gave him our names to be announced as we were disarmed by the guards at the entrance. I watched my sword _Kiji_ wistfully as it was taken away.

"Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus. The lady knight Isolde Belera of Sarmatia."

Heads turned, but I scarcely noticed, preoccupied as I was with the revelation of Bren's name. _No,_ I thought, growing cold. _It couldn't be._ But I hadn't imagined it. Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus. Centurion Marcus _Tullius_ Merula.

Recovering somewhat from the shock, I was recalled to myself when Bren started moving toward the dais at the end of the enormous hall. Members of the _nobilis_ mingled, largely ignoring me but for the occasional sideways glance.

As we approached, my eyes flickered through the crowd, searching for a profile I would never forget. _There._ That damnable man… the bastard who stole my life from me. In that moment, I let go the rest. Forget the others, the soldiers who committed the crime... who followed orders. I would be content with this man's blood alone; the man who planned the whole thing.

I did not let him see that my attention had fixed on him until I drew even with him. Then I cut my eyes sharply to his position, pausing a half-step so that he would know I was aware of his presence. His face had drained of color. A half empty glass trembled in his hand, which was clenched so tightly that the knuckles had turned white. _That's right, you miserable bastard,_ I raged inwardly. _This is what it feels like to be in the presence of death. Of _your_ death._ I watched surreptitiously as he turned and pushed his way haphazardly through the crowd. How could Bren – good-hearted, fair-minded Bren – be family to that monster?

I put Bren from my mind, studying the emperor. He was middle-aged, perhaps in his forties; rather distinguished, with streaks of silver at his temples. Despite the elaborate decoration of his person, there was nothing fraudulent about this man. His smile was wry and welcoming – for a man of power, he looked positively honest. Nor was his figure that of a slothful person, which did not surprise me, as he had been a military man in his youth. I lifted my chin defiantly when his gaze lingered on certain aspects of my anatomy with appreciation.

"Centurion," he welcomed Bren familiarly but with distraction – his gaze still held my own. Clearly this man was no stranger to the opposite sex. "And this is the warrior who comes with Artorius' particular recommendation? If I may be frank, my dear," he leaned over my hand. "He said nothing of your loveliness." I felt warm, dry lips press my skin.

"You're too kind, Your Highness," I began to step aside, aware that my audience was through.

"No, please," he entreated, lifting a finger. A man – slave by his demeanor – stepped lively to pour wine for the both of us. "Stay by me, would you?" With no choice, I reluctantly took the goblet and turned to face the crowd as the next arrival took my place to greet the emperor.

This man practically laid a carpet at Aëtius' feet, toadying up to him so blatantly that I felt the sudden urge to gag. I watched the pudgy man step off the dais. _What a spineless wimp of a man… __K__hors__, can I vomit now?_

I had no notion that I'd actually said the words until Aëtius, caught off-guard, laughed out loud in surprise. I saw that while they appeared to be holding conversations of their own, everyone in the room as aware of their emperor's every move. He was, after all, the most powerful man in the world. I cut my eyes over to him and raised an eyebrow. "What? Your Highness," I hastily corrected myself.

Still chuckling, he wiped the corners of his eyes. "You, by God. Do you realize that the man to whom you refer so charmingly as a 'spineless wimp' is one of the most powerful members of the _nobilis_? Although, I do think your assessment rather accurate. He does seem to lack something in sense, doesn't he?"

Without thinking, I said, "There are many stupid rich men of power in this world. It's the job of the masses to keep them in line." I remembered to whom I was speaking and for a moment I thought he would be terribly offended. He could have my head for saying such a thing, I realized. But then he roared with laughter and I relaxed.

"Oh, I _do_ like you!" he crowed. "You must never hesitate to share your delightful opinions with me, my dear."

_What the hell,_ I thought, and decided to push my luck a bit further. "Then I must ask something of you, Your Highness. I'm afraid I am no one's 'dear'. I must ask you to call me Isolde, for that is my name."

"With pleasure, Isolde. And I am Aëtius." I heard a gasp from the crowd near us, and I myself was similarly taken aback. For the emperor to allow one such as myself – to allow anyone, in fact – such measures of familiarity was unthinkable.

"Don't worry," I murmured so that only he could hear. "I won't let it go to my head."

"Isolde," he said, "I do believe my life will be much more lively with you around."

"I should hope so. You seem to lack for amusement around here," I quipped, looking about at the multitude of apathetic faces. He laughed once more, and the show went on.

* * *

Many hours and several glasses of wine later, Aëtius turned to me and said, "My dear – Isolde, would you care to retire?"

I was already shaking my head. "I am expected at the household where I am to reside for these months."

"I would be happy to have a missive sent."

I fished for another excuse. "My horse…"

"But of course your horse will be well cared for. Although you Sarmatians are quite fond of your horses, aren't you? Have no fear – it will be taken care of."

_Well, aren't we suave? Alright, have it your way._

"Aëtius, you asked me to be frank with you. I regret to inform you that I am promised to a man in Britain – Britannia – and that I have no intention of being unfaithful to him, no matter the caliber of the man with whom such an affair might occur. You will simply have to sleep cold." I stated firmly. Catching his line of sight, I amended, "Or perhaps not _cold_."

He looked at me with haughty amusement. "Isolde, I am an emperor. I am _never_ cold."

"So I can see," I muttered wryly as he bid me goodnight and stood to leave.

"But rest assured, I have not forgotten about you," he whispered in my ear, and went. I saw him turn slightly and catch the eye of a comely girl in the crowd, nodding almost imperceptibly to her. She lowered her gaze in acquiescence and I stifled a giggle. Never cold, indeed.

I took my own leave soon after, ignoring Bren. I hadn't yet made up my mind about him. He shared the family name of Marcus Tullius, my sworn enemy. _But he did say he was half-__Gallish__…_ I saw the bewilderment cross his face as I passed by without a word and wished I didn't have to hurt him.

Once outside, I made my way to a bench I'd noticed on the way in and sat down, my knees trembling from the stress of the night. "Khors…" I groaned in an agony of confusion. Bren was kin to Marcus Tullius, the man who had orchestrated the slaughter of my tribe… the man who condemned me to servitude. Meanwhile, the emperor had taken a liking to me, and I found myself entertained by him – though I would never be attracted to him.

So caught up in these thoughts was I that the soldier came upon me almost without warning. "What's this, here?" He said, and I stood quickly. Behind him, two of his fellows leered at me.

"You know not whom you are speaking to," I warned. "I will not hesitate to cause you great pain." I cursed myself for forgetting to retrieve my sword, even as I surreptitiously flipped the catch on my arm sheath, so that a twist of my wrist would release my knife into my hand.

The lumbering drunk grasped my arm with bruising force. "Give us a kiss, then!" He said, but before he could move I flexed my bicep, prying open his fingers so I could jerk my arm out and up, thrusting my elbow into the side of his head and boxing his ears forcefully before bringing his head into my knee. He would have a terrible headache in the morning.

The other two roared furiously and came after me with fists flailing, but the odds were in my favor in such a small space, against two inebriated Romans, whereas I had only drank sparingly. I caught the fist of the second assailant in the shoulder, rolling the joint back to alleviate the force of the blow while I grasped his other hand and viciously pinched the thick muscle between thumb and forefinger. With the other hand I shoved two of his fingers back as far as they would go. He wimpered and fell to his knees. I let my knife drop into my hand and knocked the hilt swiftly against his temple, hard enough to render him unconscious but not enough to do permanent damage.

I halted the third by the simple expedient of putting my blade to the hollow of his throat. He lowered his hands slowly, eyes blazing ferociously.

"Idiot," I said, and shoved him away from me. He ran, staggering, towards the building I assumed was the barracks.

"Damn," I cursed hotly. _What a night…_

"Isolde!" I looked up into Bren's worried eyes.

"I'm all right," I told him. "Just some drunken fools who wanted to have a little 'fun' with me. I gave them rather more fun than they could handle, I think."

He stepped over the two unconscious men at my feet and touched my face. His eyes darkened when he saw the tear the second man's fist had made in my tunic, over my right shoulder. He touched the place where I'd taken the arrow at Vindomora, when Galahad and Marrok and I were stranded alone in the forest for near a week. Although it had healed well, the wound had left an ugly knot of white scar tissue.

"It's nothing," I said shortly, turning around. "Just a scar." The last person to touch that spot had been Tristan. I felt the ghost of my lover's touch on the scar and suddenly felt like crying. I gripped his ring for comfort.

"Isolde," Bren breathed. "Surely you know how much I've grown to care for you. Your spirit, your independence, your fire … it has drawn me to you and God help me, I just might fall in love with you."

And before I could think of a single thing to say, his lips were on mine and I nearly lost myself in his kiss. I couldn't help myself – I began to respond to his passion, to the feel of his hands under my tunic…

Suddenly I broke away, sitting down heavily when my knees refused to bear my weight. "Play with fire and you will get burned," I said stupidly. Then, recalling my wits, I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart. "I can't, Bren…"

He drew back. "Why?" he asked, and I could see his struggle to contain his raging emotions. "Is it something to do with the reason you've been ignoring me all evening? I saw you turn down the emperor… I thought…"

"Oh, Bren," I sighed wearily. "You are a good man – the best – but I could never be what you want me to be."

"There's someone else, isn't there?" I could see that he knew the answer already.

"Yes," I said simply. "I'm sorry, Bren. My heart belongs to Tristan, one of Arthur's knights. I could never betray him. _That_ is why I refused Aëtius. You are a wonderful friend, but to me you could never be more than that. But it's not only that."

"What?" He asked more calmly.

"Your name." His face showed no sign of understanding. "You are a relation of Marcus Tullius Merula?"

"My father's brother," he acknowledged. "What of it?"

"That man was the very same who coordinated an attack on my tribe, sending soldiers to slaughter innocents. His aim was to make the Sarmatians believe it was the Huns who had attacked them, and thus begin a war that would finish both our peoples. But his plan failed. His soldiers didn't kill me."

Bren looked shocked, and I couldn't blame him. To find out that one's uncle is a vicious murdering swine is not the most pleasant revelation. "Bren," I said, "I am here to kill him... do you understand? I have spent years working toward this opportunity, and I will let nothing get in my way."

"So that was why you ignored me, is it? You only just found out that I was kin to him?" He shook his head regretfully and blew out his breath. "And you have a beau to whom you are betrothed waiting for you in Britain. Sarmatian as well, of course. He had better treat you as you deserve to be treated," he warned.

He looked at me ruefully. "I suppose I had to try," he said. "Don't worry, I'll survive. Just – just kiss me once more, and then I'll leave."

What more could I do? I stepped up to him, put my hands on his chest, and sweetly touched my lips to his. He groaned, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me with fierce longing, and then suddenly I was free and he had gone.

I touched my fingers to my throbbing lips and turned. He had left my sword propped against the bench. Hooking _Kiji_ on my belt, I straightened my hair and clothing and went to find Simargl, thinking not of Bren, but of the love I had left behind.

_I'm sorry, Tristan,_ I said to him. _But he was hurting, and I was lonely. Have no fear – my heart remains forever yours._

I rode out the palace gates at a brisk trot, my fist clenched around Tristan's ring. _Oh, my love, where are you now?_

* * *

Tristan nodded to the man he'd been talking to, flipped him a coin, and strode away to where his mount waited. The Gaul had seen Isolde, or a woman who matched her description, riding with near three-score Roman soldiers and a centurion, more than a month past. Tristan cursed, his black mood returning. If he were a superstitious man, he might venture to say that fate was against him on this mission. An early winter storm had battered the port from which he was to leave, damaging the ship and costing him almost two weeks while the sailors labored to repair it. During that time he was sorely tempted to strike out on his own and swim to Gaul, but was spared that trial.

Upon his arrival in Portus Itius, that same port he'd sailed from so long ago, his horse had thrown a shoe, and he'd been obliged to wait until the blacksmith could make another to replace it. He'd gotten lost, rained on, challenged by Romans – though they quickly backed down upon seeing Arthur's seal and letter of safe conduct – and on one particularly humiliating occasion, fallen off his horse. He supposed that he looked rather like a vagabond now, not that it bothered him.

So occupied was he in his angry misery that at first he didn't see the man who appeared next to his horse. He did, however, notice when that man swung a club that connected painfully with his back. Tristan instinctively grabbed the club and wrenched it out of the man's hands and kicked him down, wheezing. The blow had knocked the air from his lungs. He ignored the burning in his chest as a wave of opponents surrounded his horse.

Tristan fought to free his sword as he parried a sword blow with his _akinakes_. With his knees he directed his mount to swing around, the heavy head knocking into some of his attackers and giving him the opportunity to draw his sword and slash into the crowd. He struck thrice more with just as deadly results, and was drawing his arm back for another assault when he felt a sudden, agonizing pain in his head. He never felt himself hit the ground.

* * *

End Chapter.

I am not particularly knowledgeable of the Late Roman Empire… I'm afraid I might have made Roman life correspond somewhat to the more familiar era of renaissance/colonial Europe. But please, if anything I referred to is incorrect in any way, don't hesitate to inform me.

Now that that's out of the way, thank you to all those who stuck with me throughout the long months with no word of my continued existence. I hope to hear lots of feedback from everyone, and I'm sorry this chapter isn't quite as long as my usual 10,000 words, although I must say, I think that scene between Bren and Isolde rather made up for it!

Until next time,

**Ribhinn**

Review.


	9. IX

**WARNING!!!** This chapter contains some fairly explicit scenes of torture and near-rape. Violence and angst abound. If you are offended by this, feel free to skip this chapter, or at least the dark parts, but it does contain information vital to the plot.

But be warned – this is one depressing chapter.

Also, keep in mind that this chapter is not designed to stand alone. There are plot twists in there that will not be explained until at least the next chapter, if not later. If you have any particular questions, leave me a review and I'll be sure to cover it in later chapters. Thanks for your patience! Enjoy.

* * *

**Peace of Mind**

_ISOLDE…_

_Early __443 A.D._

The next three weeks passed quickly. I spent several hours of each day at the emperor's palace, entertaining him with my frank comments. Every night, he invited me to his bed, and every night I turned him down in newer and more creative ways. However, I was growing restless. I had yet to fulfill my purpose here – or at least, the purpose Arthur had sent me for. I had made some progress on my own mission.

While I was at the palace, I gathered information. I had, through discreet questioning, narrowed the list of officers who might have been responsible for the decimation of my tribe down to three. Of those, one had been on leave to return home. The other two were unaccounted for during the time it would take to ride to Sarmatia, lay their fake trail, kill my family, and return to Rome. I had found that one of those two liked to frequent a whorehouse in the eastern half of the city.

So it was that I found myself traipsing through the rather squalid area in which that house was located. It was easy to distinguish – the tavern was filled with roaring drunks entertained by scantily-clad women from age twelve on up to middle-aged. I, myself, was disguised as a young Roman soldier. I would have simply worn a common _stola_, but a young woman entering such a place would have occasioned some comment, and the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself. My prey must not know that it was hunted.

Not to mention, it was much easier for a male to make his way through this crowd. As a girl I would have had to break some fingers, maybe even a few heads, which would also be an undesirable situation. I made my way to the madam of the house, who thriftily bit a coin and, satisfied, dropped it in the pouch at her waist.

The woman looked me over and said, "Three coppers for this one, and an extra two if you want an exotic girl like Atiya here."

I pitched my voice low. "No, madam," I flipped a coin to her. "I come for information, nothing more." The brunette she had shoved at me pouted and went to greet the next customer. "There is more where that comes from, if you would care to step into yon private room."

She looked at me with a measuring gaze and smiled, apparently concluding that I might be worth her while. "Follow me," she said.

I fell into step behind her, trying to ignore what was going on in the shadows of the common room. I had thought Britain was a place of loose morals… Rome was a scene of perfect debauchery!

The room was cheap and gaudy, and stank of perfume, sweat, and something I didn't want to name, but when she closed the door it was fairly quiet.

"You call me Mother Claudia," she directed. "Now, what do you want to know?" She sat at the table in the center of the room, and I followed suit.

"You know the man Manius Acilius Celer?" Her gaze flicked downward to rest on her empty hand, and I slid another coin to her.

"He's a frequent customer." I admired her skill at dealing in information. She gave me only what I asked for and no more than that. I could tell she intended to make me pay through the nose for everything I wanted to know.

"Six years ago," I gave her another coin and a warning glance, "he was gone for several months near the end of the year. I want to know where he went."

She seemed to consider her options, and I allowed her to see some of my growing annoyance. She looked down nonchalantly. Good – now she knows that my generosity has limits. She was experienced enough to know that I could always take my questions – and my coin – elsewhere.

"Let me think," she tapped her chin, and her face brightened. "Ah, yes, I do recall something he said… you understand it was a while ago… but it stood out in my mind because he was particularly reluctant to reveal the information to me, although anyone could see that he was bursting to tell someone how important he was, going off on a special mission for his good friend Marcus – Marcus Tullius Merula, you know." I dug my nails deep into my palms to contain my rage. "Yes," I gritted out. "I do know."

She glanced sideways at me and I cursed myself for letting my anger show. I must not draw undue attention to myself, if I was to survive my revenge.

"He was always conspiring with Marcus and another man, his second-in-command." She thought for a moment more, and sighed, shaking her head. "I'm afraid that is all I can recall. It was _quite_ a while ago."

I lifted a small pouch from my belt and slid it across the table to her. "I understand, Mother Claudius. You have been most helpful." I nodded to her and left the building, pushing away a whore who rubbed up against me, one breast fully exposed. When I was away from the place and clear of people, I walked over to a wall and slammed my fist into it. I relished the pain that flashed up my arm as my knuckles split, expressing my near-uncontrollable anger with a primal growl.

"Your time is over," I prophesized to my demons. "Mine has come, and you will pay for what you've done."

* * *

The next day I was called to the palace for the purpose of this whole trip – an audience was arranged with the emperor, the Pope, and the emperor's advisors. It was not to be a long or involved affair, but I did deign to fuss a bit over my appearance. Just because my idea of "fussing" involved polishing my boots and weapons and taking an extra five minutes to braid sections of my hair didn't mean that I didn't care. Besides, I reasoned, I'd even tied an ornament in my hair that depicted Khors, the sun god, and shined Tristan's ring. By my usual standards I was positively spiffed up. And now I was late.

I galloped through the gates of the imperial palace and slowed to a trot. By now the guards recognized both me and my horse, and I wasn't even asked to identify myself. I paid no attention to this but swung out of the saddle before Simargl had even stopped. I tossed the reins to the head horse-handler. My vicious beast had made quite a reputation for himself here, but the man hardly flinched. He'd hit it off with my big gelding right away, and now was one of the few who had nothing to fear from him. One other who had earned that right was Farah, who, being a slave, couldn't ride him… but as my maid while I was here, she was obliged to go wherever I went, was she not? And I couldn't help it if my horse needed attention. But without skirting around the issue, Farah loved the big warhorse and he was, to my great surprise, immediately fond of her as well, and she was a big help in caring for him.

I strode through the halls, lifting a hot bun from a tray without notice. In earlier days I might have run to make my appointment on time, but the present-day me was not one to be rushed, and so I arrived in front of the audience chamber several minutes late.

I was admitted and my name announced to the hall, although most who were present knew me already. I didn't need a looking-glass to know that my hair was slightly mussed and my cheeks flushed, and that my eyes shone from the excitement of the ride. No doubt I'd made myself some enemies, barreling down the street that led to the palace, but I didn't pay that any mind.

"Your Imperial Highness," I greeted Aëtius cheerfully, adding a teasing twist to my smile as I bowed low and pressed my fist to my chest. I always greeted him formally, and every time he insisted I call him by his first name. It had become a joke between us. Like my rejections of his advances, his threats of punishment if I did not comply became more and more creative.

Today he only smiled, silently promising that he would get me later.

I faced the Pope and bowed, although I did not make the customary cross over my chest. I knew I walked on thin ice, but I was not a Christian, and damned if I was going to act like a groveling Roman. Besides, with no mention of my pagan status and with the esteem of the emperor in my favor, I stood little chance of being arrested as a heretic or some such thing.

"Your Eminence," I addressed him, then turned to the advisor and nodded. "My lords."

"Isolde Belera," Aëtius addressed me. "Let us address the situation in Britannia."

I described the patterns of the woad attacks over the past five years, and then reported the status of the town and the multiple encounters with a mixture of woads, Britons, and renegade Romans.

"I, myself, was injured in one of these attacks," I told them. "Branor, one of our best knights, led seven other knights in the defense of the fortress at Vindomora, successfully beating them back until the rebels were forced to surrender."

One of the advisors leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. "Were there any casualties in this battle?" he asked. Another asked, "Where was Artorius at this time?"

"Arthur was called away to deal with another military matter," I answered the second. "He left Branor in charge to clean up what seemed to be a small band of rebels. As for casualties," I said, annoyed by his offhand manner, "One dead and two wounded, myself included. One of our counterattacks before the siege, though initially successful, backfired on us. Marrok, a Sarmatian, was felled by two arrows. I was shot by a woad, who was then killed by Galahad, one of our youngest knights. We were stranded in the forest, for by then the rebels had laid siege to the fortress and we had no way of finding help for either Marrok or myself. We were forced to make our way back to Hadrian's Wall on foot, with Marrok tied to my horse."

The man looked skeptical. "You were shot, and yet you walked from Vindomora to Badon Hill? That must be at least four or five days!"

I raised my chin. "I survived," I said. "That is more than I can say for some."

I continued my report, omitting Gatalas' visit to Britain.

"What we really need, your Highness, is more trained warriors, particularly those with some experience both in the field and on the training grounds. There are many promising Britons who would likely augment our forces very well, if they had more skilled instructors there to guide them."

I told them of my training group, my troops who were both reliable and spirited. The Romans expressed some derision toward my Britons. "They are good fighters," I defended them. "However, I am only one, and there are many more willing to fight to protect their land. Although I feel I must advise you, if I may… they would comply much better under the command of Sarmatians than Romans."

"And why is that?" Another advisor spoke up, sounding rather miffed. "They are under Rome's rule. Are they not obliged to obey Rome, and by extension, Romans?"

I was beginning to become truly irked. Of all the self-righteous, superior things to say!

"No," I declared, taking pleasure in the shocked expression that crossed many of their faces. "They consider themselves free people, and the Romans invaders who occupy their land for a time. And those who do accept your rule as permanent have just as much reason to hate Romans as I do."

Muttering broke out, and I enjoyed turning the room on end, as I always did. It was so much fun to provoke them, provided I did not do irreparable harm with my jibing.

"Many thanks to you all, my lords," I nodded, "Your Eminence," I bowed, "Highness." I once again pressed my fist over my heart. "May you all, in your infinite wisdom, decide upon the best course of action for Britain, based upon the information I have given you today. Good e'en to you."

And with that I turned on my heel and left. I didn't bother going to the stables. I was to attend supper here within the next three hours. It wouldn't be practical to make my way back to the townhouse, stay for an hour or so, and return. Instead I turned in the direction of the practice grounds, a haunt that I had only recently discovered.

There was only one person there, practicing his archery. I decided that archery sounded like a fine idea and doubled back to grab my bow and quiver from my packs.

When I returned, the man was retrieving his arrows from the target. He turned and saw me readying my bow, and started back.

"Are you sure you can even string that monster, darlin'?" His voice was pleasant and lilting, but cocksure, the voice of a womanizer. It reminded me of Lancelot, to my amusement. He saw me grin and swaggered over to me.

"Now, why don't you put that down and talk to me a bit, sweetheart, before you hurt yourself?"

He was really fairly good-looking, and I tried not to show off as I swiftly strung the bow, set an arrow to the string, and drew it back past my ear. He also happened to be in my line of fire. He backed off to the side, eyes very wide as he stared at the wicked point that had been aimed straight for his chest. I would never have shot him, of course, but I wanted him to know that I could have, if I'd wanted to. I flashed him a smile. _I _do_ love to keep people off-balance_, I thought.

"Who _are_ you?" He inquired with some amazement. I sighted on the target and loosed, the bowstring twanging softly against my leather wrist-guard. I put another arrow to the bow and aimed before I answered.

"Isolde, daughter of Beler of Sarmatia," I let go of the string and smiled in pleasure when it split my other arrow in two – even though it meant I would have to fashion another soon. I slung my bow over my shoulder and turned to him. "Knight of the Round Table and second-in-command to Lord Lucius Artorius Castus of Britain." I rather liked all of my titles lined up like that. _I ought to have a plaque made_, I thought humorously.

The young man's eyebrows shot up. "A knight? What is this, then? I've never heard of a woman knight before. And never tell me you're serious when you say you're second to Artorius Castus."

I ignored his disbelief and took hold of my bow again. My next two arrows clustered around the broken arrow and the one that split it. When I went out to retrieve them, I was glad to see that the arrowheads were almost flush with one another. Excellent. I pulled them out and returned to where the man stood.

I glanced at him. "Are you still here?" I noticed he had recovered his cocky grin.

"How can I be elsewhere when there is such an intriguing piece of work as yourself here?" I lifted one eyebrow.

"_Intriguing?_" I said. "Surely not." I punctuated my remark with another solid shot from my bow.

"If you are as good with a sword as you are with a bow," he interjected smoothly, "then I should say intriguing is the least of your qualities, for you are beautiful and charming as well."

Struck speechless, I cuffed him lightly and walked away, chuckling. "Beautiful and charming," I mocked. "What a ridiculous thing to say."

With that I pulled out my arrows and slid them into my quiver, then left the training grounds. Over my shoulder I called, "Although if you'd like to test your theory as to my skill with a sword, you'll meet me at the palace gate at dawn. I'll show you how a real warrior fights."

_There_, I thought. _He won't be able to resist that barb to his masculine pride. He'll be there._

This would be fun.

* * *

The city was still quiet when I rode up to the gates, fully armed and armored. Luckily, the young man from the night before had anticipated that we would be standing on ceremony – he, too, wore full armor and a variety of weapons. His destrier was about a hand shorter than my own gelding, a fact that I noticed with some amusement. I clasped his forearm and turned Simargl with my knees, leading the way out of the city, to a field that was often used for weapons and horsemanship training. I took him to the far corner of the field and dismounted, sliding easily out of my high saddle. The sky was clear and the thin crusting of snow on the ground was beginning to melt under the warming sun. I removed my helm and tucked it under my arm, regarding my companion.

"So," I began, "What would you like me to teach you first?" I grinned at his offended air.

"If you mean to ask what weapon I choose," he said with his nose in the air, attempting to maintain his dignity, "I'd like to see what you can _really_ do with that bow."

I unhooked my bow from behind my saddle and strung it. "Name your target," I said.

He walked out to a tree that was, in my opinion, insultingly close. "No good," I told him. "It's too short a range." I had wasted enough arrows the night before, showing off. I wasn't about to shoot at a solid target at that range – my arrow would be irreparably damaged.

He picked a new target, still well within my range but not so close that my arrow would be obliterated. "All right," I said. While he fixed a scrap of cloth to the tree, I retreated almost twice the distance and turned with an arrow already on the string. I drew my bow and drew a line from my arrow to my target. Noting the wind, I made the necessary adjustments, lifting my point of reference to several inches above my intended target.

The man turned and saw me standing twice as far from him as he thought. I made a mental note to myself to find out his name… I might as well know who I'm beating. He began running toward me, but I ignored him, concentrating on my shot. I loosed, and watched the flight of the arrow with pride, certain of my success. It was like that, sometimes. The elements would come together, the stars would align, whatever you wanted to call it – everything would feel right with a long-range shot and it was like magic. You just knew it was right, and that was how I knew now. I heard the distant _thunk_ of the arrow hitting the tree.

I trotted back to where the nameless man crouched, hands thrown over his head. "Are you quite all right?" I asked him. I suddenly felt bad about showing off. _Dammit, Isolde, _I chastised myself. _You know that's bad form. Why did you have to push it?_

He climbed to his feet and looked at the target. The cloth still fluttered around the tree, punctured now by the black shaft of my arrow. It reminded me of the tiny black slivers that the woads used, and that we had tried and failed to reproduce. They would penetrate the skin, so thin that at first we couldn't tell what was wrong. It was an eerie feeling, as though the air itself was attacking us.

We'd collected a small supply and divided these amongst ourselves, for emergencies, I supposed. I drew out that pouch now and selected one of the little barbs.

"Here," I handed it to him carefully. "Watch out – it's wickedly sharp." He handled the little thing gently, with respect. "The Britons call them elf-darts. The woads – natives of Britain – make them. We gathered these from a camp of woads we defeated, about a year ago. They're dead useful if you want to spook your enemy." I winced at my choice of words. "Believe me – we lost two good men to them."

I cocked my head at him. "What is your name, anyway?"

"Titus Pellius Lepida. I'm a legionary, under Centurion Marcus Tullius Merula." Khors, would that damnable man follow me everywhere I went?

"Can I give you a word of advice?" He nodded. "Get out of his Century. I… knew him, once. He is not a good man, and he's an even worse commander." I could see he knew this already. "I do have some connections. Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus, his nephew, is a reliable man. He also happens to have one of the most brilliant military minds I've ever encountered. If I vouch for you, he would likely be happy to have you fight for him – he recently suffered substantial losses on his last mission."

He nodded again and I could see a shadow of relief behind his eyes. He must have seen something to make him aware of the wisdom of this, I thought. Any man under Marcus must turn world-weary at a young age. "I would appreciate it, Isolde." He started to hand the wooden dart back to me, but I held up my hands. "You keep it," I said. "To make up for scaring the daylights out of you. I just miss that."

"What?" he asked, wrapping the elf-dart and tucking it safely away.

"The thrill, I suppose. The surety of having an enemy in your sights and knowing that you can take them down, and maybe keep more of your brothers alive by doing so. Killing like that, though… it's very clean. It's even easier than killing with a sword or lance or knife – especially with a knife. It's too easy not to discriminate when you're not looking your opponent in the eye before you take their life."

He was looking at me strangely. "You really meant it, didn't you? When you said you were Arthur's second, that you were a knight… it's not just a game to you. It's real, isn't it?"

"Just as real as this, standing here… more, even. When I'm out there, in Britain, I have to keep my brothers alive. I am a scout. If my senses fail me in any way, they die. If I allow myself to get distracted even for a moment, they die. If I am killed…"

"They die." He nodded. "I begin to understand. It's different here. In war, when you fight with an army, there is always someone else to take your place. Always another man to fight if you die. If you lose a battle, there will be more men to join the ranks and fight, and die, the next day."

I sighed. "The men I fight with…" I struggled to find the words, feeling a lump in my throat. How I missed them! "There is no one to replace them. They are my family. All the family I have left. They might even be the last of my people. Sarmatia is dead. It has been so since our forefathers signed away the lives of their sons and grandsons, to fight for a foreign cause, slaves to an indifferent Roman master."

"Is it so very bad, fighting for Artorius?" He asked curiously.

The corner of my mouth lifted in a half-smile as I thought of my commander. "No," I said. "Arthur is British, to me, although he idolizes Rome. Not as it really is," I added quickly. "But as he thinks it is. He sees it as a land of intellectuals, of men speaking out, fighting a verbal, ethical war to make all mankind free. When I return, I don't know if I will have the heart to tell him that it is a lie. He is such a philosopher, is Arthur. He loves the knights as his brothers, and me as his sister. I know he is part Roman, but he would die for us, and I would happily sacrifice myself for him. There is no bond stronger than that."

* * *

That night at supper in the palace, I announced my imminent departure.

"Perhaps we could reach some agreement, Isolde," the emperor coaxed. "I could arrange for you to live comfortably throughout your service… even terminate your service permanently." I sucked in my breath. I could be free of Rome. Free of a servitude that I never chose, in which I was forced to kill those with whom I had no quarrel.

Any other day I might have considered it. Khors, I might have accepted. But today of all days, with the thoughts of my brothers and my commander so close at hand, I knew I could not. I couldn't leave my friends to fight without me. I could never leave them.

Aëtius must have sensed that he had lost that battle, but he refused to give up the war. I couldn't blame him. The company he had to keep was duller than a forty-year-old blade. If there was one thing I had realized during this journey, it was that even the choices available to emperors had limits. Even the most powerful ruler had to follow the laws and customs of the land.

I spotted Titus, my swaggering archery target, on my way to the stables. He sat around outside the barracks with a group of fellow soldiers, talking and drinking. Titus laughed at something one of the others said. He spotted me and called me over.

"Isolde! How are you? Not too sore from the morning's exertions, I hope." The others raised their eyebrows as I came over and greeted him warmly. I heard a low whistle but ignored it. I could tell he was basking in the glow of his comrades' envy and decided to play along.

"I'm fine, although I admit it has been a little while since I drew my bow. You, however, are not bad with your own bow. Maybe one day you'll be as good as me." I couldn't resist throwing in that little barb. Otherwise he might let it go to his head.

He flushed, but bowed gallantly. "This is the girl I was telling you about, lads. She has an uncanny accuracy at nearly twice the normal range!" I allowed myself to preen only a little, pulling out my smallest knife and digging the point under my fingernails to clean them, though it was mostly just for something to do.

"Please, Titus, I'm not _that_ good. I lose to Tristan, one of our best knights, all the time. We have a running bet going. He may best me at archery, but I still beat him with the sword at least six bouts out of ten." I didn't usually hold with false modesty – I knew I _was_ that good – but I didn't want to appear a braggart. I just happened to be particularly proud of myself when Tristan lost to me, for a change. He was, I admitted, better at just about everything else.

"Nonsense. I'd never seen the like. You Sarmatians make beautiful bows," he winked at me, "as well as beautiful women." I flicked my fingers at him as if to brush off the absurd compliment.

"So is it true? You're really leaving?" He asked me a moment later. I nodded.

"I've completed my purpose here in Rome. Arthur needs me back in Britain. I should be leaving in a week or so, I'm not entirely sure when."

"Then it's a damned shame," said Titus. "That you and I didn't meet sooner. I would have liked to get to know you much better." He wiggled his eyebrows at me and I was forcibly reminded of Lancelot when he was in his cups. I giggled at the thought.

"I'm sure you would have," _Though you__ wouldn't have a chance,_ I thought. "Gentlemen," I excused myself. "It was nice to meet you all, but I really must go. I have much to do in the next few days, and I believe I shall start tonight."

I turned to go when Titus grabbed my hand, spinning my around to land in his arms. While I was still reeling from the motion, he kissed me and my senses rioted. He really was very good at this. He released me and I heard his fellows hooting and hollering their approval. I tried to force down the blush that rose to my cheeks in an attempt to preserve my dignity.

He smirked at me. "It's not everyday I get to kiss a lord's second-in-command, especially when the lord in question is as renowned as Artorius Castus."

Well, I thought, _his _reputation was made. I fluttered my fingers at him in a mockery of a wave. "Don't get your hopes up, boy," I told him to the delight of his comrades. "I don't expect it will be happening again anytime soon." With a grin, I left them.

As I walked away, I heard the others gather around Titus. "Did you say she was _second_ to Artorius Castus? The famed defender of Britain?"

_Men,_ I thought loftily, and headed for the stables. I had much to do this night.

* * *

The next day, the city was buzzing with the news: Manius Acilius Celer had been found murdered in his own bedroom. There was no sign of struggle or crime except for the bloodied corpse, a black feather, and a note that was pinned to the body, bearing one carefully formed word.

_Justice_.

Two days later, Manius' second-in-command woke to find a similar note, accompanied by another feather, laid upon his pillow. It read simply, "_Judgment_."

By that time, all anyone of any station could talk about were these two consecutive incidents. Who was the mysterious person who was carrying out this apparent vendetta? How did they make their way in and out of the houses of the _nobilis_ undetected?

Some concluded that the two men must have committed some grievous injustice and were now being punished for their misdeeds. They were neither of them well-liked, and in fact had a reputation for being ruthless men. After the first cold murder, many considered the second man lucky to be alive.

In the marketplace, a strange woman in men's clothes appraised the speculators with a calculating gaze, listening to the rumors taking flight, and smiled.

* * *

I placed the last of my possessions carefully into my saddlebags, making sure that everything was safely wrapped. I had a small gift for each of my brothers, as well as double rations for two weeks of traveling. I planned to buy more as I traveled, or work for it if I had to. I had to be careful how heavy my packs were if my plan was to work.

Farah had been quiet for several days – since I told her that I was leaving, in fact. She came into the room now, a small bundle under her arm and a package in her hand. "For you," she said, passing me the package. I took it and thanked her, but she shook her head. "That one isn't from me," I unfolded the cloth that covered the gift and reverently touched the contents, an exquisite pair of matched knives.

"They're _beautiful_," I breathed. "Look at that! Look at the balance…" I set the blade of one on my finger, right above the hilt. It hardly wavered. I launched it up into the air and watched it flip end over end, flashing mirror-bright. I caught it easily on its way down. There were even new wrist sheaths to go with them, made of soft, durable leather. The note, written in a strong, simple hand, said only, _"In our company, you will ever be 'friend'."_

I hugged them to my chest, delighted. _Bren. Bren sent me these_. I regretted our last encounter, awkward as it was. I would make a point to seek him out when I visited the palace for the last time, I decided. It wouldn't do to leave him without saying goodbye.

Farah looked at me with exasperation. "Only you would go all doe-eyed over a weapon," she said, hiding a smile.

I ignored her tone and peered at the other item. "What's that?" I asked. In reality I was thinking, _I _love_ gifts!_

She handed it to me, looking down shyly. "It's from me. As thanks for your kindness… and… andIwanttogowithyoubutIcan'tandpleaseohpleasetakemeawayfromthisplace!"

I blinked. "Eh?"

She seemed to shrink in on herself. Over the past weeks I had drawn her out of her shell somewhat, but now she had retreated again in anticipation of rejection.

"You know I am a slave. I have nothing to look forward to in this life except for existence as a drudge – less than that, a possession, something to use and throw away once I live out my usefulness. I was once the daughter of a high-ranking man among my people. I cannot live like this any longer. I bore it before, but meeting you changed that, and now I have been given back my identity, and I can never repay that debt, but I must ask you for one more favor. Please, take me to Britain with you, I can sneak away, I'm very good at not being seen… I should be; I've been doing it long enough."

I tried to get a word in, but she ran over me as though she were afraid to stop. "And I can be helpful, I can cook and keep your things clean, I wouldn't mind doing it for you, by choice… I can even learn to hunt, I already know how to use a bow, although Mistress doesn't know. I only need to get to Britain and then I can make my way, I know enough from what you've taught me about the country and their customs, I could get work as a barmaid or elsewhere, and then I would be out of your hair and you never have to hear from me again if you don't want to."

"Farah," I made another attempt. No such luck.

"And I swear I won't talk too much like I am now, I just have no other choice, no options left to me…"

"Farah." I took her by the shoulders and she quieted. _Finally,_ I sighed, lifting the garment I'd laid out beside me and holding it up to her.

"Yes, I think that would fit quite well." I set it down and stood.

"Well? Put it on!" Confused, she did as I directed and donned the _stola_.

"Wonderful. Now, it would be good if you were to go missing today, in about… an hour or so. Stay close, though – I'll meet up with you around-"

"Isolde? Are you saying you'll take me with you?" She sounded as though she hardly dared to believe it.

"Well, of course I am. Did you think I'd leave you here, alone?" My breath whooshed out of my lungs as she flung herself at me in a fit of pure joy.

* * *

I took my leave of Appia, Tiberia, and Vibia, all of whom I believe were quite happy to see me go. We had had little interaction since my arrival, as I passed much of my day at the palace or in their stables with Simargl and Farah. Speaking of which, the household was in turmoil since the young Parthian had disappeared. I had to act as though I were disappointed that she was not there to see me off, as it was a commonly-known fact that Farah and I had become particular friends during my stay. I believe she might have even been disciplined for her familiarity with me, but that was behind us, now. She would not be beaten again, if I had anything to say about it.

I found Bren just where I had thought to find him – in the barracks with his men. He saw me and stopped in midsentence to join me.

"I hear that you are leaving," he said, his face a mask of studied indifference. "I wish you well on your travels."

"Oh, Bren," I took his hands. "Thank you for the knives… they're wonderful. I've never seen their equal."

He looked down at our entwined fingers. "I've never seen _your_ equal," he said simply. "Besides, I couldn't have you going away thinking I hated you for not returning my feelings. I know I've avoided you since that night…"

I touched his cheek. "You needed time to heal. You will be fine. You'll find a girl who can be to you what I cannot. You deserve that much and more."

He seized my face between his hands. "Listen to me, Isolde," he said. "Be careful. I know I may never see you again, but I would like to think that you are all right. All I want is for you to find happiness… even if it's not with me."

He kissed me with fervor and longing, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Apparently he felt it, too, for he wiped it away with his thumb and pulled me into a bone-crushing embrace before putting me away from him.

"Go now, Isolde, for I don't know if I will have the strength to let you go if you do not."

And so I left him, and I knew that what he feared was true – I would never see him again.

The emperor was unavailable, called away to an emergency meeting with his advisers, I was informed. I was genuinely disappointed to hear this. I had determined from the beginning that Aëtius was unaware of Marcus' actions six years before, and so had felt free to develop, if not a friendship, then at least a companionship with him over the past month. In a very short time, I had become one of Aëtius' most trusted acquaintances.

"Very well," I consented. I fidgeted. I could not wait any longer.

"Would you fetch me parchment and a quill?" I asked one of the footmen, whose face was familiar. He returned within a minute with the requested items.

I wrote quickly and folded the parchment. I picked up a taper and let the wax drip onto the note, using the ornament that I had begun to tie into my hair as a kind of makeshift seal. The result looked official and I passed it to the man who had turned me away.

"Give this to the emperor," I said. "He will know what it is." I walked away from him, and from Rome.

The message?

* * *

I rode Simargl toward the gate, turning back only once to take one last glance at the palace I had confronted only a month ago.

"Lady Knight." A man bearing the crest of an imperial messenger hurried toward me, clutching a scroll to his chest.

"Lady Isolde Belera?" I nodded briefly.

"What is it, messenger?"

He held out the scroll. "Your letter of safe conduct," he said. "Your freedom."

I sat astride Simargl, frozen with something between shock, elation, and fear. It couldn't be true.

"I'm not staying," I warned him, with nothing else to say. "Not even for this." He looked as though he had expected me to say that. _My freedom. _I reached out with shaking hands to take the precious document.

"The emperor sends the message, 'If the wind cannot be tamed, then it cannot be owned.'"

* * *

Tristan groaned and rolled over – or tried to. A sharp point digging into his neck discouraged movement, and Tristan stilled, opening his eyes and trying to recall what situation he'd gotten himself into this time.

The blinding ache in his head slowed to a dull throb, and he began to take stock of his surroundings. Three men dressed in unfamiliar armor stood before him. One particularly unfriendly stranger pressed his spear point further into Tristan's throat, breaking the skin. Another barked at the man in a tongue he didn't recognize, in an obvious reprimand. So they wanted him alive, at least. _For the moment,_ he added pessimistically.

The one who appeared to be the leader came to stand in front of him. He said something to the man with the spear, who muttered but put up his weapon. Tristan glared at him and struggled to his knees – something made more difficult by the ropes that bound his hands behind his back.

"Why are you here?" The leader asked in accented Latin. His words had a strange sound to them, as if he swallowed his vowels. Tristan insolently stared up at him from under his fringe, saying nothing.

"Speak!" The angry one kicked him over. Tristan fell face-first onto the ground and struggled upright again, glowering at him. The leader shouted something at him and the others left.

Tristan considered the leader. He seemed as though he might be a fair man, but Tristan didn't want to give the stranger any reason to mistrust him.

For a moment he thought it might be too late as the other man drew a knife from his belt and leaned toward him. Tristan was bracing himself to lunge forward in an attempt to knock the blade from his grip when the man sliced through the bonds that secured his hands.

The Sarmatian sat back on his heels, rubbing his wrists to return the circulation. The leader sheathed his knife and appraised him with coolly collected eyes.

"I am Cerethreus," he said, "of Gaul. You are in my camp, among my people." Tristan said nothing, waiting for Cerethreus to continue. "Our band wanders throughout Gaul and the Roman Empire, finding work as entertainers, warriors…"

"Thieves?" Tristan spoke for the first time.

Cerethreus shrugged. "We thought you were Roman. We are not partial to Romans."

Tristan scowled. "I am _not_ a Roman, and I'll thank you not to call me one. You and I have that in common, I think."

The Gaul was already nodding. "One of our number was once a legionary. He confirmed that your manner of dress is not of Rome. Neither is it Gallic, or British, or any other style we have come across in our travels," he prompted.

Tristan was silent for a moment. Cerethreus had shown substantial trust in him, especially when he revealed that his people not only operated somewhat outside the law, but also that they contained persons wanted by Rome, such as deserters. Perhaps it was time for him to show some faith in Cerethreus as well, although he was not a trusting person by nature, and frankly was not very fond of prying people. However, something about this man identified with Tristan and he found himself telling him about Isolde, and relating the bare bones of her story.

Cerethreus said his band hadn't come across her, but as theirs was a nomadic community, Tristan was not surprised. It would have been easy for them to miss each other.

The other man tossed a roll, a hunk of cheese, and a flask to Tristan and just before leaving said, "Don't try to leave just yet. You are not a prisoner, but my men don't know they can trust you. I'll confer with them tonight. Thank you for being honest and trusting me."

The scout nodded curtly to him, and with that Cerethreus ducked out of the tent and left him alone.

Tristan followed the Gallic leader's suggestion and kept to the tent for the day. By dusk, however, he was growing restless and agitated. He was only about week away from Rome, and Isolde. He had to move soon, before Isolde did something stupid and got herself killed before he could arrive.

* * *

I watched the change of guard from the shadow of a tree, my weapons sheathed to prevent any reflection from the torchlight on my well-polished blades from giving away my position. The only way in that I could see was to scale the wall and take out the guards before they could alert the others. It would be somewhat tricky – I must not allow the alarm to be raised. I couldn't fight off three dozen guards by myself, and so I must rely on stealth. Luckily, stealth was my specialty.

I glanced back the way I had come. I'd left Farah and Simargl in an alley a safe distance away, where we could make our escape if things went sour. I had given her instructions that if I did not return by dawn, I would likely not return at all. She had all the gold I had at my disposal, and I told her that if that were to happen, she should ride north as fast as she could, and make her way to Britain, and Arthur. She would be safe there, I told her. She had agreed reluctantly, unwilling to leave me but too practical to argue.

After half an hour of watching and waiting, I began to move. I winced as a cramp worked itself out in my calf. It had been long enough, I determined, for the new guards to have lost their wary edge. I knew from personal experience that a watchman begins his shift with a keen sense of things, but after a short while, the rustle of leaves in the wind becomes less suspicious. A truly good scout will learn to develop a constant state of awareness, so that this disadvantage did not apply.

I reached the shadow of the wall easily, although my nerves twanged with restlessness. The wall was not particularly well-made; designed more for its aesthetics than for defense. I had no trouble finding handholds and footholds between the stones. As I drew level with the top of the wall, I could hear the whisper of cloth and the scrape of armor – a guard was stationed on the walk, right on the other side of the wall.

I fished out a tiny pebble – more of a chip of stone, really – and tossed it onto the walk, away from my goal. While the guard was looking for the source of the sound, I quickly and silently heaved myself up on the wall, perching carefully on the top before drawing my knife and cutting the man's throat. His lifeless body I left propped up against the wall – it looked as though he merely slept, if one ignored the blood that soaked his dark jerkin. His head flopped down onto his chest.

I made my way down the stairs and across the courtyard, moving from shadow to shadow as though I were a part of them. I felt a feral grin stretch my face in a mockery of amusement. I had always loved the hunt.

Strangely enough, I met with only one more guard before I reached Marcus' quarters – it was easy to find, as it was the most prominent room on the second floor. I dispatched the guard, lowering his body to the ground and leaving it. It wouldn't do for the sound of a falling body to alert anyone nearby.

As it happened, I needn't have been so cautious. They were waiting for me.

Just as I reached the door, it burst open and soldiers spilled out. I'd felt a twinge of instinctive warning a moment before and had drawn my sword – an action that probably saved my life, I reflected as I blocked the first downswing. I swept my sword up and sliced across the man's belly. I didn't wait to watch him fall and I turned to catch the next onslaught. I sensed something solid at my back and realized I had backed up to the wall without realizing it. Good. Now no one could come at me from behind.

I had the sinking feeling that the precaution would not help me. There were many soldiers in the hall – too many. My skills, however well-developed, were not equal to the sheer numbers presented to me. I slashed horizontally to fell multiple opponents at once, and quickly realized that the longer reach of my sword made fighting in close quarters far too awkward and slow. The others seemed to reach that conclusion at the same time as I, and they surged forward. I dropped _Kiji_ and drew my knives to jab at them. A blow to my left arm numbed the limb and made me drop my dagger. A moment later my other blade was wrenched away, buried in someone's ribcage.

I was weaponless in the hands of the people I despised the most. If I could not have my revenge, I decided in that split second, I would at least have an honorable death. I raised my chin and charged, screaming a wordless Sarmatian war cry.

I caught one man in the face with my spiked gauntlets, tearing away half his face. I immediately realized my mistake with a lurch of despair as they caught my arms and slung me to the ground. They didn't mean to kill me after all. I writhed in their grip, but to no avail. By the disdain in their faces, they would just as soon kill me as look at me, and that they did not meant they were under orders to leave me alive. Given the house in which I had been captured, I knew who must have given those orders.

I growled an insult as I was patted down none-too-gently, and with a definite lingering on certain aspects of my anatomy.

I was awarded for my cheek with a sharp, stunning blow to the side of my head. Light, amused laughter reached my ears and I snapped around to face Marcus as best I could, narrowing my eyes with concentrated hatred that focused solely on the man in front of me.

I tried to stand, so that he wouldn't think he had power over me, but was forced once again to my knees by a hard boot stepping on my leg, just behind my knee. I sucked in my breath as the man put weight on my legs, effectively holding me down with bruising force.

"Look at you, my beauty," said my nemesis, the man I had spent six years of my life hating. "I knew you wouldn't leave Rome without saying hello. Especially after you left those charming messages. What was mine to read? _Retribution?_"

"Something like that," I snarled.

His cold, gray eyes took in the many soldiers whom I had killed or wounded, and his mouth tightened in annoyance.

"You didn't bring company, did you?" He asked. I spat at his feet and was rewarded with a sharp yank on my hair. I thought of the first man who had grabbed my braid when I was captured, and his scream of pain when he encountered the spiked strap I wove into the plait. One of the spikes had gone clear through his hand. Of course, the strap had been removed from my hair, which now hung down in sweaty strands about my face. I smiled grimly at the memory. Stupid Romans.

Marcus, irritated at my insolence, stepped forward and slapped me sharply. "Sarmatian whore," he growled, pushing his face close to mine. "You're going to enjoy your stay here, bitch. I know I will."

He chuckled, and then jerked back as I lunged at him, my teeth clicking together less than an inch from where his nose had just been.

The men holding me back brought me up short and threw me to the ground. They kicked at me and I curled up with my back to the wall to protect my kidneys. I vaguely heard Marcus walk away, but I dedicated my energy to fending off the worst of the blows.

Suddenly the barrage ceased. I felt rough hands removing my armor before I was lifted by arms and legs and carried, motionless. Then I was flying through the air, and I landed hard and rolled. My head struck the wall opposite the door and my vision went foggy and then failed altogether.

* * *

When I awoke, my body _hurt_. It was nothing that I hadn't felt before – it was the firm grip of the men holding me down that made me worry. The dull clank of metal against stone drew my attention to the activity behind my head. My shirt was torn away by one of my captors and I watched Marcus approach, an oddly triumphant gleam in his eye.

He touched my cheek tenderly and smiled, but there was nothing kind in his face. I saw the iron in his hand too late. The hiss of my burned flesh mingled with the scream of agony as he pressed the brand to my skin, just above my right breast.

I was not blessed with unconsciousness – no, I wasn't so lucky as that. I whimpered to myself, stranded in a world of hurt. The blows the Romans delivered to my prone body were almost disregarded when compared to the searing pain in my shoulder. Slowly I became aware that the beating had stopped. I laughed self-deprecatingly at my earlier thoughts of rebellion. Of course he had power over me. He owned me. He knew it when he captured me, and now he had made sure that I knew it, too. The door closed and I was left alone in the dark.

* * *

The dark was smothering me. I knew I wasn't alone, but I couldn't tell where the other person was. A flicker of pain across my stomach made me hiss. A soothing hand smoothed my brow as the knife lovingly traced my body, opening numerous lines in my skin, cuts that were designed to scar. Lips tenderly caressed my own and against my will, I felt my body respond to the touch, even as tears of pain and shame soaked into my hair. The invisible lips ghosted over my skin, chased by the bite of the blade, across my neck, my breasts, my sides. I couldn't breathe.

Tristan's face flashed before my eyes, by turns loving and accusing. I pushed it away, but as the lips found my own again, I found my will faltering. _Go away, Tr__istan,_ I pleaded. _I don't want this to be you._

More tears trickled down over my temples as I closed my eyes.

"Sleep, now," a quiet, comforting whisper commanded. "Sleep."

I curled myself up into a ball, no longer coherent enough to weep. The dark pressed in on me, condemning me, weakening me. Breaking me. I followed the voice's direction and slept.

* * *

Tristan slithered over the wall, his armor melding with shadows so that he seemed only partially there. This suited his purpose well. A sleeping guard fell to his thirsty blade, never to wake again. More would die, before the night was through, he vowed. Many more.

* * *

I woke suddenly as a weight settled over me. I cried out in mindless horror as he groped between my bare legs, pleading and begging him to leave me be… to let me die… to kill me. A fist slammed into my head and I lost consciousness.

* * *

Tristan bounded up the stairs, all need for quiet gone now that the alarm had been raised. He heard the racket as Cerethreus' men attacked from the front. A cry of desperation caught his attention and he pushed harder, pure black rage fueling him. The cry had been Isolde's, barely recognizable to his ears. He flung open the door, a tower of fury, much like an avenging angel but with bloodshed on his mind. What he saw brought him up short.

She lay pitifully on the floor, blood smeared across her naked form. The sight of that galvanized him into action, ruthlessly splitting a man in two before he could even raise his blade.

"Isolde!" he cried as he spun and ducked, felling the remaining guards with two simple, ferocious swings of his sword. "Isolde, get _up_!"

* * *

I swam out of the depths in which I was mired, recalled to the world by a familiar voice that cried my name.

_No_, I thought fuzzily. Tristan could not be here. Marcus could not have him. He was safe, away from here.

* * *

Tristan watched, inwardly terrified, as Marcus stood over Isolde, dragging her up by her hair. In his other hand he held a knife that sparked in the dim light. She swayed on her knees, eyes half-open, hardly registering her surroundings.

"You are Tristan," Marcus stated coldly. "I remember you. She called out your name, you know." Tristan tensed, red fog obscuring his vision. "Lay down your sword, now. You wouldn't want anything to happen to her, would you?"

Tristan leaned down, gently laying his blade on the floor and taking the opportunity to slip one of his throwing knives into his hand, keeping the weapon hidden from Marcus.

He straightened slowly. "That's better," Marcus gloated. "Now move over there." He jerked his head to one side. When Tristan failed to comply immediately, he drew the knife gently across Isolde's throat in a deliberate threat.

It was a mistake that cost him his life. Isolde thrashed suddenly, keening in remembered agony. She fell hard on one shoulder, and Tristan took advantage of Marcus' exposure, flinging his knife at the Roman. It took him in the throat, and no sooner had he fallen than Isolde was on him, clawing at the man's face while he gurgled in the last moments of his life.

* * *

My fingers found the hilt of his knife, the same knife that had marked me and broken me in the dark. Through the haze I knew only that he was mine, and I stabbed downward with all of my waning strength. Again and again I stabbed, until the wetness on my face was more blood than tears, and then I clutched my arm to my chest, having injured it in my fall. I rocked back and forth, wailing my pain and fear and triumph all at once.

I vaguely recalled that I still held the blade that a moment ago had nearly taken my life. I couldn't seem to let it go, and instead held it close to me like a treasured memento.

I shuddered and stopped crying, my tears spent for the moment. It was done. He would never torment me, or anyone else, ever again.

* * *

Tristan approached her slowly, carefully. He was almost afraid to touch her. It seemed as though no part of her body was unmarked, and he felt ill, looking at her.

Crooning softly, as he would with a wounded animal, Tristan unpinned his cloak and carefully wrapped it around her, picking her up and cradling her to his chest. He let out a breath, more sob than sigh, and rested his chin on her head. For a moment he just held her. He tasted salt and realized he was weeping. Tears of relief coursed down his face.

A shout alerted him to the fact that they were not safe yet.

"Wait." Tristan barely heard the whisper, but he set Isolde down where she indicated. With shaking hands, she reached out and used bloody fingers to write out a single word on the floor, beside the body of her most hated enemy.

_Revenge._

Her message delivered, Isolde swayed and Tristan picked her up again. Tucking the ends of the cloak about her to preserve what remained of her shattered modesty, he carried her down the stairs to the waiting men.

His companions made way for him, staring at the pitiful bundle he carried. Isolde did not move, but shrank against him. Tristan kept his face stony, while inside he cringed with her. He mounted and set her in front of him, wrapping his arms around her once again.

Without a word, he kicked his horse into a gallop and led the way out the gate and away from that place. Flames rose behind him, and in their angry light, he smiled.

* * *

Tristan thrust his knife into the ground to clean it of the Roman's blood. They had made camp after riding through the night to clear the city and any who might try to pursue them. Although, he thought, no one in Rome knew who had killed Marcus, or where they were destined. But he was a cautious man – one reason of many that he was still alive.

He stood, turning the dagger in his hands. Every sense he had was trained on the tent behind him, where the healer with Cerethreus' band was tending to Isolde, who had slept throughout the night and most of the day.

A scream wrenched the air and in a moment Tristan was inside the tent, grappling with Isolde for the knife she still clutched like a lifeline. She fought him, her eyes wide and searching. He had the eerie feeling that she couldn't see him. Suddenly she folded against him, sobbing for breath.

"Shhh," he soothed her. "Shhh… I'm here, dear one, I've got you." He grasped her hand tightly and held it until the wild look left her eyes.

Tristan looked up at the healer, who appeared shaken, and no wonder. Silently he nodded to the man, indicating that he would care for her. He didn't think she would let anyone else touch her, in any case.

At the Roman's estate, he'd only had a few moments to notice her injuries. Now, looking at them closely, he felt sick as he imagined the Roman with her… hurting her.

She looked at him lucidly for the first time since he'd come upon her at the estate. "Tristan," she breathed. It was the first sign of conscious recognition she had shown. Tristan pulled her tighter to him, as if by doing so he could mesh their very bodies and protect her forever. "It's all right, Isolde," he murmured. "We're together. He'll never harm you again."

* * *

I looked up at my beloved's face and reached up to brush away a strand of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes. "Tristan," I whispered, and began to weep. For once I understood Arthur's devotion to his god. I'd been delivered.

He kissed my forehead and I stiffened against the memories this action conjured – memories of soft lips and sharp knives in the dark.

_No._ This was Tristan, the man who loved me. Nevertheless, I had to steel myself against his touch.

He seemed to understand, drawing away enough to give me space. I tried to move and groaned as the movement aggravated my shoulder. The brand aside, I could feel that something was wrong with my arm.

"Tristan," I rasped. "My arm."

He noticed the strange look of it and swore. "I'll have to push it back in," he warned, positioning himself so he could do so with a minimum of pain and effort. I clenched my teeth together. He lifted the limb, making me grunt when my strained tendons shifted. With one smooth motion he twisted my arm and pushed it up so that it slipped back into the joint. I shrieked with the sudden agony, sweat breaking out on my brow, but within a moment I sighed in utter relief. My shoulder still throbbed, but the feeling of wrongness had gone.

Tristan seized my arm, careful of the injured joint, and cursed vehemently. I closed my eyes and touched my fingers to the brand that he had only just discovered. The feel of the scabbing ridges sent shudders racing through me, and I fumbled for the knife, thrusting it at Tristan.

"Get it off of me!" I begged him. "Cut it off, I won't belong to him! I won't have his mark on me." When he hesitated, I brought the knife down to cut into my own shoulder. Before it could puncture the skin, however, Tristan took the blade from me and set it against the brand.

I held his wrist, guiding his hand. "Do it," I whispered.

I made no sound when he flicked the knife skillfully, shaving off a thick layer of skin and leaving a patch that bled freely. It was clean, untainted by _him_. It was the first step of freeing myself from him, I hoped.

I thought he would put down the knife, but before he did so he took my hand and, before I could utter a word, etched a slightly crooked T into the fleshy part of my palm, below my thumb.

He said nothing of it, but I knew that it was his way of saying that Marcus had no ownership over me. I was his, and even then I was free. I laid my bleeding hand behind his neck and brought his face to mine, pressing my forehead against his. He made no move to do more, but we shared a moment of understanding so complete that it beggared description.

I woke some time later. Tristan had bandaged the fresh wound on my shoulder, and the sharp pain of my dislocated shoulder had dulled to a distant throb. Seeing that I had awakened, he took up a clean rag, dipped it in the pitcher of water that sat beside us, and began to bathe the blood from my skin. When I clenched my fist in an expression of discomfort that had nothing to do with my injuries, he rinsed the rag and handed it to me, letting me finish. When I had, I set aside the scrap of cloth and Tristan handed me a bundle. I looked at him in silent inquiry.

"Clothes," he said. "Yours. Your friend Farah found us and told us what had happened. I sent her back with one of Cerethreus' men to join their band. We should meet up with them in two or three days. Assuming you're up to riding," he added. "Frankly, I was surprised that Simargl put up with her at all, but he behaved like a gods-loved angel."

I glanced up sharply. "Is he here?" I had worried for my horse when I was first captured, but since then I hadn't had the time or energy to spare him a thought. Tristan nodded. "You can see him tomorrow, when you're rested," he told me sternly.

One corner of my mouth turned up wryly. "Yes, Mother." He squeezed the hand he was wrapping, and I returned the gesture.

He tied off the dressing he'd put over his mark and reached for a long strip of cloth, fashioning a sling for my arm. I would have to keep it fairly immobile for the time being, I knew, and I wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. My exhaustion aside, I dared not leave the tent. The very thought of going out among more than a dozen men, even with Tristan there, made me involuntarily cringe with fear. No, I decided. I would stay here for the time being.

I heard Tristan settle outside, heard the sharp singing of his sword as he stroked it with a grindstone. The unique shape of his blade made it a melodious sound, and it was oddly comforting. I laid myself down, allowing the fatigue that I had been pushing back for so long to cover me like a blanket. I pressed my face into Tristan's tunic and breathed in the scent of him, feeling the barest sense of safety that I had thought might be beyond me, now. Finally I lost myself to sleep.

* * *

My, my, Isolde _does_ seem to get kissed a LOT. I noticed that she was fairly egotistical in this chapter, too… I only illustrate her the way I see her. This was, indeed, a dark chapter (at least the second half), but this is presents perhaps her biggest trial so far, as she struggles to come to terms with her days as Marcus' prisoner. Once again, I realize that it might have been confusing, but I expect to clear up some of the details in the next chapters.

Hope you all enjoyed it! I even went overboard and it's now about 12,400 words long – 2,400 longer than usual!

Read and please, PLEASE review!

**Ribhinn**


	10. X

"_Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."_

* * *

**Peace of Mind**

_ISOLDE…_

_Early 443 A.D._

When I awoke, Tristan was gone. Judging by the faint, purplish quality of the light that shone through the cracks of the tent flap, the day was nearing its end. With my good arm, I pushed myself up into a sitting position, groaning as the motion stretched the scabs across my back. Looking down, I saw my skin was painted a mottled black and blue. I adjusted the bandage on my chest, where the brand had been, and the sling that supported my dislocated shoulder. Testing the joint carefully, I flinched but decided that it felt much better than it had.

A hand pushed the flap open, and a young man I didn't know stuck his head in. When he saw me sitting up, the blanket wrapped around me still, he flashed me a quick, friendly smile and withdrew. I heard him call to someone, and a moment later Tristan appeared. His usually impassive expression had been replaced with a mixture of relief and, for some reason I could not fathom, anger.

He didn't say a word, but came in and sat down in front of me. He seemed content to stare at me in silence.

I quickly grew tired of this and leaned forward to press my thumb against the stern crease between his brows, smoothing it away before I set my hand against his jaw. After my long absence, his face was wonderfully familiar to me – except for the beard, which had grown out during his travels. It rasped my skin pleasantly, but suddenly he took my wrist and pulled my hand away, setting it back in my lap.

"Tristan," I started, confused.

"Now that you're feeling better," he interrupted, "you can explain to me just what you were thinking."

"What do you mean?" I said defensively, beginning to get angry as well. I hadn't the slightest clue as to what he was referring to, but I wasn't so beaten that I had lost my hot temper.

"Perhaps you remember abandoning me at Badon Hill to worry while you set out to kill yourself over your damn blood feud? Did you think I wouldn't figure it out? Did you know that Arthur locked me up for nearly a week before I could convince him that you would get yourself killed? Only then did he let me go after you, and in doing so I encountered every piece of bad luck I could possibly have come across, up to and including being attacked and captured by Cerethreus, before he realized I wasn't a Roman."

"Tristan, please," I tried again, but he would have none of it.

"And then you go and try something as foolhardy as this! First warning Marcus with those thrice-damned messages at the other scenes, then charging into his estate and provoking him with no thought for your own wellbeing, and for your efforts you get beaten and marked and… and dishonored by the man I hate more than any other on this earth. How could you do something so _stupid?_"

I could feel the blood rising to my face. "_Stupid??"_ I shouted, bringing all the force of my gaze to bear on this man I loved, the man I would have challenged to a duel at that very moment if I'd the strength. I was furious at him and all I could think was that I'd hurt him, and I wanted to make it better. But my mouth wouldn't comply.

"You think you know it all, do you? You think you know how I feel and think and why I behave as I do, is that it? Let me tell you, you know _nothing_ about it! I _died_ inside that day when Marcus took my home from me. I thought I had healed since then, living with our Sarmatian brothers and loving you, but then Gatalas came, and he tore those wounds wide open. None of you trusted me as much as you thought, not after that day. You thought you had forgiven me for lying to you, but you still questioned every word I said; I could see it in your eyes! I couldn't bear watching you all look away when I said something about Romans or our servitude, or if I mentioned my clan.

"I went to Arthur the day before I left, I _begged_ him to give me a purpose, because I was so restless there. The messenger from Rome had just demanded that a knight be sent to report, and both Arthur and I agreed and knew in our hearts that I was _damn_ well the best one for the job, and if I could bring justice to the ones who killed those I held most dear while I carried out the mission that Arthur entrusted me with, then so be it. Yes, I warned Marcus to be on his guard, when first I saw him and through the notes and feathers I left the others who orchestrated the slaughter of my people.

"I never wanted to leave you behind," I growled vehemently. "But Arthur shouldn't have had to do without two of his key scouts, even if the woads were settling down for the winter. This was something that I had to do on my own. No matter how much my heart wanted to be with you, I had to put that aside and concentrate on my mission, because Arthur needed me to do this for him, as he needed you, yet _still_ you came. _Do you think I am such a fool?_ Do you not realize that I love you, and that I want to live with you and for you more than anything?

"I made a mistake when I was in Marcus' estate, that's why I was caught. When I was cornered and fighting for my life, it was your face that flashed before my eyes and your name I shouted when I charged into what I thought would be certain death, because I would rather have died loving you than be captured and reduced to less than what I am. But there were too many of them, they held me fast and I realized they didn't mean to kill me." I took a shuddering breath, steadying myself.

My voice rose again. "So don't you _dare_ feel sorry for _yourself_ when I was the one who was tortured and shattered and nearly r-raped." His head snapped up and my mouth twisted with wry bitterness. "I thought you were better than that, that you loved me enough to forgive me for having been forced to his will, but he never had me. _You_ are the only one who ever has. I was under his control and scarcely aware of my surroundings, but I heard your voice and all I could think was that he had you, too, and that thought nearly broke me. I wonder that you even came to get me, if you thought he had – had raped me." My voice broke on the word, and I swallowed, trying to push back the lump in my throat and the tears that teetered on the brink of falling. I studied my hands intensely.

Then my mood changed abruptly, squeezing my heart with more emotion than I could stand. Without thinking of what I was saying, the words tore themselves from my throat, ringing with agony and broken trust. _"Why weren't you there? Why didn't you save me?"_ I bit down on my tongue, hard, wishing the words back with every fibre of my being. How could I have said that? Oh, how could I have even thought it? It hadn't even occurred to me to blame him, and yet I had, without even realizing it.

Looking stricken, Tristan reached out to me, and I couldn't help myself. I flinched. Ihated myself for it. I didn't know who was more shocked by my unintentional withdrawal. The hurt in his eyes pushed me over the edge and I turned my face away before I could lose control of myself altogether. "_Go_." I said, the word nearly strangling me. "Please."

He stood, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the tent, and backed away from me. Tearing his eyes away from me, he turned and rushed out, nearly running into the sentry who stood outside my tent. It was all I could manage not to cry out in despair.

* * *

Tristan strode straight to his tent, but at the last moment he changed his mind. He snatched up his bow and quiver and headed for the woods. Only just within sight of Cerethreus' camp, he strung his bow, looping one foot around the bow and bracing it against his knee, and slipping the string over the sharp bone piece that topped his weapon. All of this was performed within one stride. Tristan didn't even stop; he put an arrow to the string, did not even bother to draw the bow fully, and loosed, striking his target perfectly. He drew another arrow, fired, and grabbed yet another, continuing to advance. He did not stop until he had exhausted his quiver, and then he passed the forest he had made with his arrows, abandoning them as he made his way to the river beyond. There he sat until the last glow of the sun had gone.

It wasn't until the stars had made a good start on their journey through the night sky that Tristan sensed someone behind him, though he continued to stare into the dark. The other person sat down beside him, stretching his legs out on the cold ground.

"She has been through much," Cerethreus spoke beside him. Tristan looked down, but kept silent. "But she is a strong woman. I see now why you love her so."

Tristan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "She pulled away from me," he said, his tortured voice barely rising above a whisper. "She fears me now. She has gladly faced down hordes of angry woads, but she is afraid of me. Does she not know how I love her? I would never harm her! I traveled all the way to Rome simply to protect her! _She blames me._"

His hands were clenched tightly in his lap. Tristan had to consciously force his fingers to open, and he realized they were trembling. Never had he been so affected by words, but now they seemed central to his being. He brought his voice under control.

"She only just survived something terrible, and it was a close shave at that, and then I yell at her for it. I hurt her more so that I might feel better about my failure to protect her. Khors, what have I done?"

Cerethreus set a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder. "We are each of us only responsible for our own actions. You followed your heart. How can that be called a failure? In fact, I must apologize for my own part in the ill luck that delayed you. I would I hadn't set eyes upon you that day, so that your journey might have been more successful. But as it is, I cannot say I am not glad to have met you regardless, for you are a good man, and true. There are few men I would trust with my life and the lives of my people, particularly on such short acquaintance, but you have proved yourself to be one of them. I did not know when I agreed to help you that you would prove to be such a formidable fighter, nor such an admirable ally."

Tristan looked up at the dim glow of the other man's face in the dark, tearing his thoughts away from Isolde, and said, "I have mentioned this before, but now I should like to extend a formal invitation. You would be welcome at Badon Hill. Your fighters would be a valuable addition to our forces, and the shelter and safety of a town is a useful thing to have, especially with so many women and children in your company. I am certain that Arthur would be obliged to offer you a place there. He would dearly love to pick your brain, to see how you run things within your clan. He has an ideal view of the world, in which all men, all people, are free and equal. You do not have to answer now," he added, "I know you must speak with all of your people before you make your decision. But know that we would like to repay our debt to you."

Cerethreus stood, offering a hand to Tristan, who grasped his forearm and stood. The leader slapped his back. "I shall think on it. The pickings are growing slim here, and some of my people would like to settle down, to have a place of safety to protect those who cannot fight when our work leans to the side of the unfriendly. My thanks, friend."

Tristan nodded, though the motion was hardly detectable in the dark. "And mine."

He returned to his tent, but sleep would not claim him. Finally he left, stepping silently across the grass to Isolde's tent. The young guard startled when he appeared out of nowhere, but Tristan clapped a hand over his mouth before he could raise the alarm, tilting his face toward the firelight so the man could see who it was. He nodded and stepped aside to allow him entry.

Inside, Tristan could hear Isolde's slow breathing and made his way to her, lying down beside her still form and closing his suddenly heavy eyes. He never noticed when her hand crept into his.

* * *

The next morning Cerethreus' men struck camp as efficiently as they had made it, and we rode out, heading northwest. We would meet up with the rest of the band once we entered Gaul, and Cerethreus assured Tristan that he would speak to them about settling at Badon Hill.

I was just strong enough to sit a horse, and I rode in front of Tristan on his big destrier, resting against his chest. We hadn't spoken of what had happened in the tent the night before, but I knew it would have to come up soon, before it festered and drove us apart any further than it already had.

I was embarrassed to find that I had lost my edge during my month in the city, even discounting the weakness from my ordeal at Marcus' estate. Where once I could spend all day in the saddle without complaint – and if necessary, all night as well – several hours into the ride my thighs began to grow sore from the constant chafing. To take my mind off the minor discomfort, I decided to initiate conversation with Tristan, though I would try my best to avoid an argument so soon after our somewhat shaky reconciliation that morning. I would hate to have to walk all day.

"So how did you end up falling in with this group?" I asked him in Sarmatian.

"They attacked me, knocked me senseless, robbed me, tied me up, and came within about half an inch of killing me." I snorted, running a finger aimlessly over his forearm, which was wrapped gently about my waist. In the light of day, I found it was much easier not to be afraid, and the knowledge gave me hope for myself. For our future.

"Yes, and so naturally you decided to throw in your lot with them and go kill some Romans together. Very neighbourly behavior."

He chuckled. "It doesn't make much sense, does it?" I leaned my head back to rest it on his shoulder. I could feel the vibrations as he spoke, and coupled with the sway of his horse's gait it was lulling me into a stupor. "Cerethreus stopped his men from killing me. They thought I was a Roman, see, and they aren't very fond of that breed. They aren't exactly model citizens – there are quite a few deserters among them, even a Sarmatian from the Iazyges, who was taken some years before us. One of them told him that my armor wasn't Roman. The Sarmatian thought it was from the east, but since his clan occupied the lands far from mine, he didn't recognize it for what it was."

He shifted the reins to one hand, shaking out the other. I looked up at the cloudy sky, but our luck seemed to be holding. "So Cerethreus untied me and I told him where I was headed and why. I'm not sure why, but he decided to escort me partway there, since they were going that way in any case. Then your little friend showed up. Her waifish look pulled some heartstrings and some of the women gave her something to eat. We discovered that she knew you and she told me where you had gone. Cerethreus and his men couldn't pass up a chance to kill some Romans, especially when I offered them payment for their efforts. Arthur provided me with bribe money, and I figured this was as good a cause as any. So we sent – Farah, was it? – back with the rest of the clan, and came after you. You can guess the rest."

I hugged my arms around myself as I thought about the fear he must have felt. "I'm sorry," I whispered. I felt him shift.

"What was that, love?" he asked.

"I'm sorry." I spoke a little louder. "I'm so sorry I hurt you." The lump in my throat had returned, but he simply tightened his arms around me and buried his face in my hair, and it retreated again.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," he whispered fiercely. "I should never have shouted at you. I didn't mean what I said, I wasn't… repulsed. I just feared for you, and what you went through… I know you only did what you had to. I should have–" he stopped.

"Should have what? Tristan?"

He sighed into my hair, and his breath tickled my ear. "I should have protected you. I should have come to you faster, kept you safe, but I failed."

I swung around in the saddle and grasped him by the back of the neck. "Never say that," I growled. "Never _ever_. You didn't fail me. I-I thought about what I said… about it being your fault. I didn't mean it. I realized that, once I thought it through, and I should never have even entertained the idea to begin with. You saved me. You saved me in every way, and I do love you. Tristan," I pressed my cheek to his and held on to him as tightly as I could, despite the awkward angle.

We had fallen behind the others. After a moment, I turned back around and Tristan pushed his horse into a trot to catch up. We didn't speak any further, but I remained ensconced in his arms for the rest of the day's ride.

* * *

The distant sound of a horse's whinny alerted us to the presence of people ahead. Though we'd passed many people on the road, most had been on foot, so we scattered cautiously to the edge of the trees, watching the road to ascertain who might be in front of us. Tristan and I dismounted.

A group rounded the bend, a mixture of riders, wagons, and those on foot, led by one of the biggest men I had ever seen, with shaggy brown hair that nearly obscured his eyes.

"Halt!" I heard Cerethreus shout from the cover of the trees. "We have you surrounded." The men in the caravan reached for weapons. I picked up Tristan's bow, but he set a staying hand on my arm.

"Wait," he said. Sure enough, Cerethreus stepped out into the road, just in front of the big man. The man narrowed his eyes for a long moment, and then laughed loudly.

"Cerus, you old dog," he guffawed. "Very funny. You nearly had me fooled."

"Ferrand!" Cerethreus embraced the man, who topped his height by at least six inches. They slapped each other on the back, and then Cerethreus turned to the woman beside him and kissed her soundly as the others clapped and whistled.

Tristan hissed quietly to get my attention, and the two of us made our way out of the trees and up to the band as the warriors were reunited with their families.

The big man noticed us first and whistled low. "I see you had good hunting," he laughed to his leader. "And what a prize you caught!" He looked me over with admiration. Cerethreus leaned in to whisper in his ear and I saw him glance at Tristan, who was studiously looking in the other direction, although his hand lovingly caressed the hilt of his sword. Then he looked at me again, this time noting the careful, blade-sharp way I stood, the knives in my belt and my left boot, the sling on my right arm, and the large purple bruise that still colored my cheek, and he raised an eyebrow at me – professional admiration, this time, with nothing lascivious about it.

I spotted a slim figure shoving through the crowd, helped along by the snapping warhorse looming behind her. "Isolde!" Farah shrieked. She broke free of the crowd and flung herself at me. I barely managed to catch her, hissing as the movement jarred my healing shoulder. Tristan steadied me, looking down at the grinning girl with a stern frown.

"Careful," was all he said. That wouldn't do, I thought. These two would just have to get along. Farah looked happier and more radiant than I'd ever seen her. Freedom agreed with her, it seemed.

I wrapped my arms around Simargl's neck. Injured shoulder or not, this was my _horse_. My wonderful, beautiful brute of a warhorse. With delight I ran my fingers over the bow hung over the saddlebow. Finally I thought of my sword.

"Tristan," I said slowly in Sarmatian. "My sword… is it…"

He shook his head, and I clenched a fist. "Damn that man," I snarled in our language. I'd had my sword for over ten years – it had been a gift from my father, and now it was gone. Most likely a gift to one of Marcus' subcommanders. Of course, I still had _Kiji_, but somehow it wasn't quite the same.

Tristan, who knew what that sword had meant to me, wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close, kissing the top of my head. "I'm sorry, love," he said in Sarmatian. "But we took our revenge. Your blood feud is satisfied."

Cerethreus raised an eyebrow when we began speaking in our native tongue. I turned to explain, my accent more noticeable than usual. "Marcus – the man who captured me – took my sword, my last remaining memento of my father…" I growled deep in my throat. "I wish I'd taken more time killing him."

Tristan chuckled. "You already tore him to pieces, love," he said, dark amusement coloring his words. "I don't think there's much more you can do to him." Cerethreus and the other man looked at me sharply.

_True_, I thought, shrugging off my gloomy mood. My lips curled slightly in a small smile like the cat that has gotten into the cream, and I patted Simargl's neck fondly. "Still, I'll miss that sword," I said, turning back to the others.

"It is unfortunate," Cerethreus said with sympathy. "I know the value of a good weapon, and yours are some of the best I have ever come across."

I directed a faintly ironic bow toward him. "Perhaps if you return with us to Britain, my brothers can teach yours how to make weapons like those our people bear."

"Perhaps," he said noncommittally. He cleared his throat. "We should get moving," he decided, "I want to travel a few more hours before we make camp for the night."

* * *

With my good left arm, I swung Farah down from behind me. I'd ridden my own horse for the past two hours, but an entire day spent riding in my condition had left me weaving in the saddle.

"Isolde?" With a conscious effort, I focused on Tristan, who was reaching up to help me out of the saddle. His first attempt made me gasp in pain as he stretched the scabs on my side. Finally he lifted me like a child, with one arm behind my back and the other under my knees. My legs were stiff and sore when I stood up, and he kept an arm around me as if he was afraid I would fall over without it.

"I'm all right," I told him, shaking off the vestiges of my stiffness. I knew, of course, that the next morning I would be sore as all hell, but for the moment I was at least mobile. Suddenly I yawned so widely that my jaw cracked, and at the same time I shivered in the cold air.

"Sure you are," Tristan flashed me a wry half-smile and led me over to a log, where he wrapped a blanket around me and told me to stay where I was. I watched him move about the camp, taking care of the horses and setting up both my tent and Farah's. When he began to put up a third, I was confused, until I realized that he meant to sleep in a separate tent. The considerate act made me feel both touched and somewhat apprehensive. I hadn't slept without his comforting presence since I was rescued, and I wasn't sure that I wanted to start now, with so many strange people around.

Tristan saw me looking his way and nodded, his silent gaze more eloquent than a dozen flowery words. He stopped Farah on her way past and spoke tersely to her, then strode into the forest with his bow. Farah came to sit with me – as instructed, I assumed. She chattered away about the people she had met within the band, and how glad she was to see that I'd gotten back safely.

I listened with only one ear and half my senses – the rest were trained on the forest. It was something I'd noticed during the long ride: I had a very keen, heightened awareness of Tristan. If he wasn't immediately at hand, I always had an acute idea of where he was and even what he was doing.

Another person might call it psychic, but I had trained my senses to the point where I was aware of everything at once, and I knew that what might seem like premonition to others was actually a conscious or unconscious perception of one's entire environment. It was as though Tristan had a big archery target affixed to his back, and my entire being was a bow trained on the bull's eye.

He reappeared within twenty minutes, two rabbits and a squirrel in one hand. Though the animals might be lean at the end of the cold season, Tristan had never gone into the forest and come back empty-handed, not once in all the time I'd known him.

He came straight to me, gave me a hand up, and walked me over to our fire. I marveled at how quickly such a large group of people had settled down for the night. Our knights would still be setting up the tents, and these people had already begun cooking the evening meal as the sun set.

I mentioned this to Tristan, and he explained that the difference was in the design of the tents – they had many fewer stakes than ours, I noticed as I studied them. Also, the frame was made of fresh willow branches, supple but strong, although the material was made for warmer climates than we could afford to use in Britain.

"If Cerethreus agrees to come to Britain," Tristan said, tossing another log on the fire, "then I intend to see that Arthur replaces our tents with something like these; light, secure, and warm, not to mention extremely portable. With these, we could almost do away with packhorses or wagons altogether, with each man carrying his own shelter." From what I could see, there were many things that Tristan intended to take from this band of outlaws to improve our lives back in Britain.

Tristan sprinkled a little of the precious salt we carried with us on the meat and handed me a spitted rabbit. Although here it was not so precious – with the ocean and the ancient salt fields built by the Etruscans so near at hand, salt was an everyday commodity, rather than a luxury. In Sarmatia we were too far from the sea, and in Britain we did not have the landscape necessary to mine it. I wished I had thought to take some more back with me.

When we had finished eating, I yawned again. There was much to talk about, but I was still not recovered and I found my eyelids gluing themselves shut. Finally I pushed myself upright and stood. Pulling the blanket tighter about my shoulders, I hugged Farah and kissed Tristan on the cheek, then slipped my arms around his waist and hugged him tight, briefly.

In my tent, I saw that Tristan had set my saddlebags and my weapons on the floor, next to my bedroll. Searching through the bags for a change of clothes, my hand knocked into something hard, and I pulled it out. The waterproof container was only too familiar to me. I drew the lantern closer and opened the case.

The single document it contained was more precious to me than any treasure. I fingered the thick parchment that bore the seal of the emperor. For a brief moment, I considered telling Tristan, but I crushed the thought immediately. I knew that as soon as he and my brothers knew that I was free, everything would change. They might insist that I go back to Sarmatia… and Arthur would never let me go out on missions – none of them would. I would cease being their equal the moment they found out, and they would do everything they could to protect me, rather than protecting themselves. Furthermore, there was a good chance that some of them would even come to resent me for having been granted my freedom when their shackles were still fastened tightly about them. No, I decided. To reveal this to them was impossible.

I replaced my papers and blew out the lantern. For the time being, I would put the matter out of my mind. With that, I lay myself down to sleep, and dreamed of Britain.

* * *

_Spring 443 A.D. – 1 ½ months later_

I left the ship gratefully, reveling in the solidity of the ground beneath my feet. I had been one of few to be ill during the voyage, and as before I was the worst affected. Rather than the longer, cross-country route, we had boarded a ship on the western coast of Gaul, and I had spent a miserable week and a half curled up on a bunk rather than riding in the fresh air. At least I didn't have to sleep in a hammock – the very sight of the swinging canvas had me rushing back to the rail to heave up the little I'd been able to stomach. I'd decided then and there that if staying in Britain was what would spare me another wretched moment on a stinking, tossing ship, then I would settle down as a farmer in this bloody land and never look homeward.

Tristan, looking as fresh and alert as ever, stepped up next to me, leading our two horses, saddled and carrying our packs already. I swung up into the saddle and sent a prayer to Khors, thanking him for delivering me to these shores intact – at least for the most part.

"I can't believe you made me travel on that infernal hulk," I grumbled to Tristan as I slipped _Kiji_ over one shoulder. "I'd just as soon have ridden to Portus Itius and met up with you after the regular crossing." I shrugged to settle the weight of the weapon, and then slung my quiver over the other arm so that the leather straps crisscrossed my back. We were back in Britain, which meant there could be woads at any turn, though it wouldn't become a real threat until we progressed further north.

_Speaking of which_… I thought as the others got ready to move out. "Tristan," I said, "Perhaps we ought to speak to them. They can't be running around doing whatever they please if we run into any woads."

He nodded and mounted his horse, and we rode up to the front of the line that was forming, where Cerethreus waited.

The day after we'd met up with the others, the band had called a meeting of every member. Even the women and young people had a say in what the group did – the only ones who didn't were the small children, who were too young to really care in any case. Once Tristan had presented his invitation, we sat down and listened as they deliberated, but except for some minor protests and questions, every member of their community agreed that the move would be beneficial. They had been having trouble finding employment in their line of work for some time, and the guarantee of a home and protection appealed to all.

So the band made a beeline for the west coast of Gaul. We'd had no problems whatsoever – unusual, for with any group such as this there are bound to be holdups, such as broken wagon axels or mired wheels, but nothing of the sort occurred. From what I could tell, we were due for some good fortune, since Tristan had had the worst of luck on the way down. At the port, we arranged transportation for all fifty-seven travelers, and here we were.

The leader saw us coming and smiled, waving us closer.

"Cerethreus," I greeted him.

Tristan, who had become friends with the man, called him by the more familiar nickname given him by his people. "Cerus," he said, "Before we leave, Isolde and I must speak with everyone."

Cerethreus nodded. Apparently he'd expected such a request. "All right," he said, and called his people over.

As they formed up, glancing occasionally at the two hardened warriors on their battle steeds who would lead them to their new home, I took stock of my weapons. The throwing knives from Bren were strapped to my inner forearms, and my war hammer was secured to my saddle, with the spiked side facing out. I doubted I'd need it – the woads rarely wore armor the like of which the spiked weapon was meant to tear off, but it could be used to inflict heavy damage, and so I carried it where I could reach it. Similarly, my strung bow hung over the saddlebow in front of me – I picked it up and tested it, warming the wood. I'd had that bow for over eight years, and the bend was just as supple and smooth as the day I'd acquired it. Finally, I had my sword strapped to my back and my _akinakes_ tucked in my belt, the latter resting coldly at the small of my back.

I saw that while we waited for stragglers to line up, Tristan had done the same. His quiver was hooked on his saddle, along with his sword. I was envious of that weapon – since losing my own I'd considered replacing it with a blade similar to his, with the dramatic curve and deep fuller, similar to the Persian scimitars. As I watched, he slipped a finger through a loop over his chest, pulling up and revealing one of the tiny knives concealed in his armor. Both of us wore our full regalia, in case of attack. It was ironic, how quickly our practices returned to us, even after so long away.

"Listen," commanded Tristan, his voice not loud but powerful, demanding their attention. We'd agreed that I would speak; Tristan had never been one for speeches.

"You all know of the native people of Britain," I began, somewhat haltingly. "They are called woads, and as we have told you, they are extremely dangerous. Now, they _should_ have no quarrel with you, but you all must do exactly what we say during this journey to Badon Hill. We do not know what has happened in our absence, but we know much about this place. If we should come under attack, the women and children should take shelter where they can, by the wagons if possible. Anyone capable of wielding a weapon can take up arms and aid us, but it is your choice. Tristan and I are the ones who are likely to draw attention, for we are enemies of the woads. Do not fear. We shall not let harm come to you if we have the power to prevent it."

We turned and took our places at the head of the line, then signaled our horses forward. The others followed.

Several hours after setting out, Tristan took his horse into the forest to scout along the road while I guided Cerethreus' people. We had been lucky to have landed in the morning, which afforded us plenty of time to travel that day. I looked up at the canopy above me and experienced a passing feeling of homecoming. _Khors_, I thought with a smile. _I've actually missed this place._

Despite my misgivings, despite the hardships that no doubt lay ahead of me, it was good to be back.

* * *

I awoke gasping, tears wetting my face. It was a few moments before I became aware of myself again. In my terror I had shot upright, clenching my fists in reflex.

Tristan, only half-awake, murmured comfortingly to me. He had nearly gotten used to these episodes by now. Dreams were all that remained of my experiences at Marcus' hands, although I continued to be somewhat removed from people – having lost my formerly social exterior – and I still followed Tristan with my awareness no matter where we were. I'd had time to heal, but I was not yet entirely whole again.

I'd given up keeping a weapon under my pillow, as was my custom before Rome. I would not risk hurting Tristan in my sleep. Now he sat up and wrapped his arms around me as I wiped the tears from my cheeks. He crooned to me, and I settled against his chest gratefully, taking the comfort he offered. He leaned back against his pallet, closing his eyes, still cradling me to him.

His breathing began to slow as he fell back asleep, but such peace eluded me. Come daylight, we would begin traveling again and we would arrive at Badon Hill before the day was out. I confess, I was nervous about seeing my brothers-in-arms again after everything that had happened. It seemed like a lifetime since the day I left for Rome.

Finally I gave up on sleep, and carefully freed myself from Tristan's grasp. He stirred and opened his eyes, but I told him to rest.

"I am going for a walk," I told him. "I won't be gone long."

"Take your blade, and be careful. There may be woads around." Though I knew this better than my own name, I allowed him his protectiveness. He had earned the right to be so, these past months.

I followed his advice and took my weapon with me, slinging it over my shoulder. One could never be too careful so near to one's enemies.

I left the tent, nodding to the sentry at the edge of the camp. The first light of dawn had not yet begun to glow on the eastern horizon and the dark remained impenetrable, but for the light shed by the moon. Regardless, I could feel the change in the air as the world shifted toward morning. Soon the camp would begin to stir.

I walked through the trees toward the creek where we'd gotten our water the night before. The woods had begun to look familiar to us as we progressed northward, so Tristan and I had picked a site that we'd used several times before.

I knelt by the water to drink and paused, then raised my hand to my lips, scouring the dawn surreptitiously. I thought I'd heard a noise, and as a scout I'd learned to pay attention to every instinct, every spine-tingle.

Slowly I rose, reaching up as if to scratch the back of my head. Spinning suddenly, I drew my sword from its sheath on my back and held it steady, pointing it at the neck of the person behind me.

In the early light I could see that she was slight and delicate, with dark curls that tumbled down her back. Her fey appearance was deceptive, however, concealing a sinewy strength that would only be apparent to someone trained in the art of war. The scant clothes she wore did nothing to cover her intricate tattoos, and the marks screamed out to me.

_Woad_. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her weapon, in a casual stance – not threatening, but a distinct challenge nevertheless. I took a step forward, pressing closer with my blade, nearly touching her.

The next moment I froze as more than a dozen bows targeted me.

"You would do well to lower your weapon," she said in a musical voice, laden with amusement. Her Latin was strongly accented but fluent. Reluctantly I dropped the point of my sword and set it on the ground, stepping back. I lifted my hands in a sign of surrender.

She circled me speculatively. "So," she said. "The woman warrior has returned. I confess we did not know what to think when you left."

I started. "You know of me?"

"My people keep a close watch on you and your 'Knights of the Round Table'," she laughed. It was a bright, tinkling sound that no doubt turned heads wherever she went.

"What do you want with me?" I was careful to keep my voice neutral. There was no point in provoking them when I was one wrong move away from becoming a very unhappy pincushion.

She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Well, I had thought of killing you," she purred. "But that would just be impolite. In any case, as my honored brother claims, our quarrel is not with you Sarmatians so much as it is with Rome and its dictatorial demands. He has issued orders to our people not to initiate violent confrontation with the Sarmatians unless we are attacked first, although naturally many of our warriors are less than inclined to follow that order."

Her _brother_? "Merlin? You are the sister of the magician Merlin?"

"Magician?" she chuckled. "Hardly. Yes, I am his sister."

I thought about what she had told me, and realized that she had thrown me a bone, in a manner of speaking. "Why would you tell me this?" I asked, somewhat suspicious. Such a revelation could be used against her people.

She sighed. "I am a wife, and a mother," she said. "I do not like warfare. If the act of telling you that such conflict can be avoided will save the lives of not only my people, but yours as well, then I relinquish this knowledge gladly."

"Let me ask you something. How do you know that I won't use this information as a strategic advantage? Why should you tell _me_? And how did you learn to speak Latin so well?"

"So many questions!" she exclaimed. "Very well. We captured a Roman scholar when I was a child. My father decided that with Rome imposing so many senseless laws and customs, it would be intelligent for my brother and I to learn their language."

Out of nowhere, the woman produced an apple and shined it briefly, then took a bite. She didn't speak again until she had swallowed the mouthful daintily.

"As for your other questions… we've met before. Oh, not officially, of course," she hastened to add. "I was there when our peoples clashed, one day a few years ago. In the midst of battle, when the best of men lose their heads and kill indiscriminately, a man fell, defenseless, and you showed him mercy. You let him live. That is how I know you can be trusted to help curb this bloodshed if you have the opportunity, without letting your own friends die. Because you have shown compassion before, a capacity for mercy, and I know you shall again."

I saw a flicker of real emotion cross her eyes before she turned to go, and felt compelled to ask one last question. "Who was he? What was that man to you?"

She smiled kindly. "You are perceptive. The man you spared – he was my husband."

The woman backed away into the forest. With the barest of rustles, I sensed the archers surrounding me disappear like mist, until all that was left was the silence of the wood and the glint of my sword in the moonlit night.

I hadn't even asked her name.

* * *

Tristan and I halted our gallop at the top of the rise. Below us stretched the fort and town of Badon Hill, with the massive Wall reaching into the distance in either direction. His hand found mine and squeezed it. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. How familiar this seemed! Almost too familiar, considering how profoundly I had changed in the past months.

I had tied both my standard and Tristan's to the business end of my _kontos_, and now I raised the lance to catch the wind. They fluttered and lifted as we signaled our horses to trot. With my blue pennant and his black one, the sentries on the Wall would not take alarm when we rode up to the gate. We had ridden ahead of Cerethreus and his people so that we could warn Arthur before they arrived, and because I couldn't stand the suspense any longer.

We weren't challenged as we crossed the threshold into the town, although one of the guards hailed me cheerfully from his station.

"It's good to see you back, Lady Isolde, Sir Tristan," he said. I nodded in acknowledgment, the man's name escaping me at the moment.

As we rode past the Roman barracks, I noticed a large number of soldiers whom I'd never seen before.

"Julius," I called, "Where did all these new men come from?"

The veteran looked surprised. "You don't know? They came with a message from the emperor himself. Said they were the reinforcements that you asked for."

I smiled to myself and silently thanked Aёtius for his generosity. My freedom, my reinforcements… what more could he gift me with?

Julius walked alongside our horses for a few paces. "Where is Arthur?" I asked him.

"In council with the commanders of the new troops," he said, grimacing. I sympathized; those sessions could go on for hours at a time, with no reprieve. _Well_, I decided, I had better go and give them the respite they undoubtedly needed.

"Very well. There will be a large group of people, civilians and warriors both, coming behind us. Can I trust you to see to it that they are provided with food and temporary housing, until something more permanent can be found? On my order," I specified, knowing that otherwise the guards at the gate might not pay him heed. The authority of a knight would open doors that would be closed to a simple grizzled foot soldier.

"As you wish, my lady."

"When they are settled, after the evening meal, send a boy to fetch me and to guide their leader to the Hall. I shall meet him there, along with Lord Arthur."

He bowed. "Very good, lady."

I nodded to him. "My thanks." He recognized the dismissal and fell back to attend to his duties.

Tristan exchanged an amused glance with me. "Not back five minutes and you're already giving orders." I smacked his arm lightly and offered a fleeting smile.

I knew that to reach the inner courtyard, we would have to pass the training grounds, where the knights would be at this time of day, if they were not on patrol. _Oh well,_ I thought. _It cannot be avoided._ It was like breaking the shaft of an arrow – best done swiftly and in one fell swoop. My fingers were clenched around the reins, wrapped tightly enough that the tension made Simargl fidget and prance sideways. Tristan urged his horse up beside me and set a hand on my shoulder. The contact gave me strength.

As we rode, we were hailed from all directions by villagers welcoming us back. I heard the _clang_ of swordplay and mocking laughter. We rounded the corner and took in the grounds that were spread out before us. I felt as though years had passed since I last trained here.

Ru had just disarmed Galahad. Galahad, bereft of weapons, charged at him. Before he could make contact, Ru bent down, slamming his shoulder into Galahad's solar plexus and lifting him up over his shoulder. The younger man pounded on Ru's back, shouting at the grinning fool to let him down, to no avail. Ru paraded him around like a sack of potatoes.

Tristan snorted. Ru turned around and promptly dropped Galahad, staring openmouthed.

"Tristan! Isolde! Wake up, you ninnies," he shouted to the others. "They're back!"

And the charge began. Within moments we were surrounded by sweaty men in smelly leather armor. Ru reached me first and snatched me out of the saddle, manhandling me around the circle. Alarmed and still a little skittish, I froze like a frightened rabbit. Tristan saw this and elbowed his way through the crowd to my side, taking my hand. Suddenly I could breathe again, and I squeezed his hand gratefully.

"Khors," he appealed. "Give her some room, would you? We've only just arrived." They backed off, although I saw Lancelot giving me a hard, assessing look. He wasn't the only one, I noted with dismay.

I finally found my voice. "Gods, it's good to see you all." I looked around at their beloved faces. "But we've been traveling for months. We have to report to Arthur. We'll have plenty of time to talk later." I was happy to hear that my voice didn't tremble once, though my nails were digging into my palms nearly hard enough to draw blood.

They let us go, touching my arm or shoulder in welcome. My eyes stung with shame as I tried to keep from flinching. _These are your _brothers, I thought scornfully. _And yet their touch affects you as if they were the foulest of creatures, though they would rather have their skin flayed from their bones than cause you pain._ I knew this, yet I could not help myself, and I hated myself for it.

We made our way to the Hall of the Round Table, nodding to those who greeted us but not stopping to talk. The people of Badon Hill had long ago become used to our habits, and knew that directly following a mission, come hell or high water, we would report before taking even a moment for ourselves.

We stopped in front of the large wooden doors that barred the entrance of the Hall. I smoothed my wayward hair, twisting the blonde locks away from my face, and briefly brushed off the dust from the road. Thus composed, I set my hands against the great doors and heaved them open.

I took several strides into the room and stopped as I became the focus of everyone within, resting my hand on my hilt in an unconscious, battle-ready stance that had become habit during the long months I had spent surrounded by the perils of Rome. Tristan stood to my right and half a step behind me like one of Arthur's avenging angels, his face both guarded and forbidding, even here in the presence of his beloved leader.

Arthur had risen when I walked in, eyes wide and red-rimmed from hours of reading reports with only the smoky oil-lamps for light. His face split in two when he recognized me and he whooped, leaping nimbly over the table and sweeping me up with unrestrained joy. Startled, I let him swing me around, stumbling back a few paces when he set me down to pound Tristan merrily on the back.

"By God, it's good to see you two!" he cried. "Tristan, my thanks. I knew you'd get her back safe and sound."

Tristan looked to me briefly before answering, and I nodded minutely, communicating my assent. He turned back to Arthur, speaking softly so his words would not carry to the others in the room. "Safe," he said, "but not entirely sound. Tread lightly, Arthur."

Arthur's gaze swung 'round to me and a sudden frown creased his brow. "Wha-" he began, then recalled himself. Despite his obvious concern, I could tell that he recognized that this was neither the time nor the place – nor the company – for explanations, and thankfully kept his counsel.

"Not here," he agreed with my unspoken plea. "Later." There was no question. He would have the story, there was no other option. I had known he would insist, and so it was no surprise, but still I dreaded the coming conversation.

Arthur recovered his composure and led us over to the three men at the table, all of whom stared at us quizzically. I thought I recognized the man in the middle and stepped forward, surveying him.

"Commanders Aulus Hirtius Galeo, Tiberius Cloelius Pictor, Decimus Iulius Ralla." He indicated each in turn. "Our new reinforcements, thanks to your efforts in Rome." Arthur bowed his head sardonically to me. "When I sent you to present our reports to the emperor, I hardly expected this, although they are of course most welcome."

I arched one brow with a good deal of my usual attitude. "All right," he amended, "I suppose I did hope for something of the kind. You know me far too well, Isolde." He smiled boyishly and I grasped his shoulder affectionately, chuckling mentally. Both of us knew quite well that the reason he had sent me was because I would get the things we needed from the Roman dogs without stepping on _too_ many tails.

"Khors, I missed you, Arthur," I said warmly in Sarmatian. He returned the sentiment in our language.

The commander with the familiar face rose and politely cleared his throat. Arthur clapped his hands. "Of course! How churlish of me. Commanders, may I present Lady Isolde Belera, Knight of the Round Table and Commander of the local militia, and Sir Tristan Halani?

Belatedly, the other two stood and reluctantly saluted, their predispositions towards women impeding their military training as their sense of propriety warred with their instinctive reaction to my superior rank. I smirked inwardly. They might be perfectly amenable fellows, but I couldn't help but feel a bit smug about the opportunity to show them what a _real_ woman could do. Perhaps it was bad form, but I had always enjoyed showing up my opponents in retaliation for underestimating me.

I saluted them in the Roman fashion, pressing my fist to my chest. I reserved the Sarmatian salute for those I truly respected. So far that had only ever included my fellow Sarmatians, Arthur, and the subcommanders of my village recruits – whom, it seemed, had been elevated to the much more distinguished status of 'militia' during my absence. In return, my villagers had adopted that salute for their own and proudly honored my brothers and I when they used it.

I shook myself out of my reverie and pulled up a seat, Tristan settling at my right.

"Commander Galeo," I addressed the familiar one, "You were made known to me in Rome, were you not?"

He bowed his head respectfully. "Before that, yes, milady. I was among Lord Brennus' officers."

"Of course!" I clapped my hands. "I do know you. How came you here? Has Bren got away from his uncle's command?" I frowned in concern, pretending ignorance.

"You did not know? But of course, you left before the tragedy occurred." He eyed me speculatively, and it struck me suddenly that he knew, he _knew_. I crushed the seed of panic that sprang up in my heart, forcing my concentration back to this man who could finish me in a moment.

"-brought his case before the emperor… and yours. But not four days after you started north, his uncle was found brutally murdered, with all his household guards, by that same culprit that killed Manius Acilius Celer and threatened his second-in-command, Spurius Velleius Barba."

Finding my voice, I asked, "Have they caught the murderer? How do you know it was the same?"

"Aye. You'll recall the scoundrel left messages at the other scenes? This one was written in Merula's own blood, reading "_Revenge_". 'Twas a gruesome sight. He'd been torn to shreds."

My fingers shook and I folded them in my lap to conceal it. Tristan covered my hands with one of his big ones, the gesture remaining unseen beneath the table to avoid suspicion. I did not have to feign my distress but concealed my fear and the feeling of nausea I always felt at the thought of Marcus as an expression of shocked distaste. I lowered my eyes briefly and saw his eyelid flicker, making me sag imperceptibly with relief. He nodded minutely to assure me that he'd keep his peace, and shifted his position noisily, to attract attention from me, I supposed.

"Artorius, I fear I have been sitting for too long. Perhaps I could take you up on your offer of a tour later, now that Lady Isolde has arrived. As for now, I request your permission to retire, if you do not mind."

Arthur gave us the once-over and pursed his lips.

"I was going to have Isolde show you the ropes when she returned, anyway," he mentioned to the assembly as a whole. "But I think it will have to wait. You look worn out," he observed, turning to us.

I started to protest that I was fine, but Tristan leaned minutely closer and I received the silent message. As much as I wanted to jump back into my duties here, it had been a long and stressful journey, and although I hated to admit it I needed the rest.

Tristan and I stood at the same time, saying our goodbyes. Arthur carefully wrapped his arms around me and for a fleeting instant I clutched at him like I was drowning, letting out a sigh that was almost, but not quite, a sob. I hadn't realized how much I had needed my friend and commander until now.

Arthur released me and stepped back, his eyes fraught with concern. I took a deep breath to compose myself and saluted him as Tristan followed my example. Arthur returned the salute in the Sarmatian fashion, and we did an about-face and left the hall, our matched steps echoing in the stone chamber.

* * *

Though I urged Tristan to go meet with the others, as I knew he wanted to, he would not hear of leaving me to make my own way to my quarters. Instead, he escorted me through the barracks to my room, which was situated just across from his.

No words were needed – I squeezed his hand, a silent thank you, and he lifted it to kiss my palm where the crooked _T_ was gouged into my flesh, a lasting reminder of his love and protection.

When he had gone, I closed my door and looked around at the possessions I barely recognized as my own. I slid down to sit on the floor, rested my head back against the paneled wood of the door, and did not move for a long while.

_Home._

* * *

Hello, hello! I fervently beg your forgiveness for leaving it so long… I know, I'm awful, but enjoy this regardless. Unfortunately nothing much happens in it, not even a suitably angsty scene, but bear with me. I'm sorry I'm such a horrible updater, but what with college, having a shipboard summer job (during which I had extremely limited computer use – between 12 and 4am every six days – and extremely unreliable internet… and it was against company policy to write/read/be busy with anything at the gangway. Anyway, suffice it to say that it's been hard to find the time, place, and motivation to write. Hopefully now that I'm settled in at my new college I'll be able to update more regularly. Good reading and good day.

**Ribhinn**

Review.


	11. XI

"_Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."  
_

_

* * *

_

**Peace of Mind**

_ISOLDE…_

_Late Spring 443 A.D._

I woke to the golden light of early afternoon slanting across my face. The day was nearly over, I realized as I recalled our return and our meeting with Arthur and the new Roman commanders. I had meant to be up early to speak with Arthur about Cerethreus and his band, but it seemed I had slept far longer than I intended. I groaned and stretched, working out the stiffness that remained from so many days in the saddle. I could have easily – and quite happily – stayed right where I was and damn the consequences.

Snuggling into the solid warmth at my back that was Tristan, I cursed Arthur, Cerethreus, and all the other obligations that threatened to wrench me from my bed to the lowest pits of hell. My wriggling made Tristan's arm tighten unconsciously around me like a bar of steel and I shoved at him.

"_Air,_" I squeaked, and elbowed him in the solar plexus, which elicited a vague grunt from my scout.

He muttered in his sleep and loosened his grip on me. I maneuvered around to face him. His eyes were closed, and I could tell from his steady breathing that he was asleep. Comatose, more like. I could smell the alcohol on him – he must have been up most of the night, held hostage by the rest of the knights as they pestered him for information on our mission and of course on Rome, that city on a hill that commanded our allegiance and possessed our bond.

I studied Tristan's face affectionately. He had not shared my bed in any way but the most innocent since before my departure for Rome, Khors bless him. He must be the most patient and controlled man in all the known world, I thought. I loved him the more for it. Now, as I watched him, I felt the stirrings of desire that I had suppressed over the past months since my capture and abuse. In the safety of the fort, I felt no such restraint.

The thick stubble on Tristan's jaw rasped my skin as I dragged one lazy finger down his neck and chest, from the sensitive spot just below his ear on down toward his navel. A subterranean growl rumbled through him, like a purring cat, and I noticed some distinct activity in lower regions.

Swallowing a soft snort of amusement, I pressed my nose into the hollow of his throat and kissed his collarbone, flicking out with my tongue to taste the saltiness of the skin there, and was rewarded with a definite hitch in his breath as he awoke.

I put a hand on his hip and he shuddered, fully aware now. He asked me a question with his eyes, his gaze hot as coals, and I answered in kind. _Yes._

He lowered his mouth gently to mine, and I could feel the tension in him, the restraint as he strove not to spook me. I would have none of it. Shoving past the faint flickering of panic, I slid my hand lower and he said a very bad word.

Mistaking my chuckle for a protest, he tried to jump away from me. I sensed his intention before he moved and locked my legs around him, pulling him up against me. He froze, struggling to maintain control, and I saw his eyes were squeezed shut.

I pressed my lips to his temple, by the corner of his eye, and in Sarmatian I said, "It's all right, my love, my dear one. Come to me." And he did, his lips crashing down on mine.

He flipped me over on my back so that his weight pressed down on me in a pleasant way. He loomed over me, his elbows supporting him on either side of my face, forming a protective cage about me. He nipped my shoulder lightly, making me shiver, and I returned the bite, and then he stroked his callused hand over my breast and I heard a gasp and quickened breath – mine – and…

And two brisk knocks sounded just before the door burst open, so that we had no time even to cover ourselves. I clutched Tristan's shoulder with my hand, using him as a shield from prying eyes. Whoever it was – and I didn't give a damn who had earned my wrath – I was going to slaughter him with my bare hands.

"_Damn!_" Galahad cried, clapping his hand over his eyes. "Bloody sodding _damn_!" Tristan snatched up his trousers and left me free to wrap a sheet about me for modesty's sake. Galahad heard the motion and backed blindly toward the door, but it was too late to escape our ire.

"Ar-Arthur wants you," he stuttered, "in the Hall. When you're decent."

"We're decent," Tristan said tightly. The younger man cautiously lowered his hand, flushing scarlet when he saw me glowering on the other side of the bed, clad in nothing but a sheet. I heard a stifled guffaw from the hall. Apparently we'd drawn an audience, I noticed. Outrage, humiliation, and a strange urge to laugh bubbled just beneath the surface in a particularly violent combination.

Tristan stalked toward Galahad slowly, menacingly, and leaned in close.

"_Run_, pup," he growled, eyes snapping black fire. "_Run_, because I mean to chase you, and you will not like the results when I catch you."

Galahad took this suggestion to heart and lit out. A few moments later, Tristan lost control and charged after him.

* * *

Galahad was a fast little bugger, Tristan had to grant him that. He finally cornered the younger man in a little-used corner of the fortress. Galahad looked distinctly uncomfortable, and not a little frightened, as he gasped for breath. After all, more than six feet of bloodthirsty scout _is_ rather daunting.

"Look," he offered conciliatorily, "I'm sorry if I – well, ruined your moment, but it's not so bad. What I mean is," he hastened to add when Tristan's face darkened further, "There are plenty of other moments. Besides, I'm sure you two have been at it like rabbits, the way you've been acting."

The attempt at levity failed spectacularly. A singular clarity came to Tristan and he whipped his fist around and caught the other Sarmatian in the face. Bone crunched and Galahad stumbled back with a cry, but Tristan gave him no time to recover as he slammed him up against the wall. His hand came back for another blow but he found it caught in an iron grip. Another set of hands pried his fingers from Galahad's shoulder and drew him, straining, away from his victim.

"Khords an' Azabus!" Galahad shouted, his words garbled. "I dink oo broke by dose!" He pulled his hand away and stared down at the offended organ cross-eyed. Sure enough, his nose was mashed over to one side and blood ran freely from it. "Ow!! Soddig basder'! Wha'd oo do thad for?!"

Tristan lurched forward, his eyes hot, while Dagonet and Lancelot, who had followed the enraged hunter and fleeing hunted, held him back.

"Steady, Tristan! Leave off, won't you?" Lancelot gritted. Tristan might be lean and sleek as a panther, but he was damned strong.

"You good-for-nothing _imbecile_," the scout cried, uncharacteristically losing control. "For the first bloody time since Rome I actually thought she might be starting to trust again, and _you_, you tactless worm, you come bursting in uninvited! You see me watching her and you think we're 'at it like rabbits', do you? Did you ever stop to think? Can't you see she's been hurt? _Don't you realize I'm trying to protect her?_"

Lancelot slid in front of Tristan and shoved him back with a hand on his chest, his mind racing. Had something happened to Isolde while she was in Rome? He felt a deep urge to find the man who could harm the strongest woman he knew – and the closest to his heart – and tear out his throat. Yet although his sympathy extended to Tristan, who must be hurting with her, he placed himself more solidly between his brothers and thrust the angry man back again, bringing the other hand around to grip his shoulder.

"Leave off," Lancelot repeated. "He's a pigheaded idiot, but he's one of us, regardless." Tristan's eyes darted back to Galahad and Lance could see the fury draining out of his friend. The resentment was still hard in his gaze but at least he had stopped trying to maim their idiot comrade. He pulled out of their slackened grip and spun on his heel. Within moments he was gone. Galahad cursed again and stumbled off in the other direction, toward the healers'. Lancelot and Dagonet exchanged helpless glances.

What the hell was going on?

* * *

The moment of truth had come. I didn't know what I was so afraid of – in my head I knew I'd done nothing of which I should be ashamed, but the rest of me wished I could be somewhere else, anywhere else… someplace where I would never have to relive that terrible night again.

The knights, summoned by Arthur between patrols, circled around the Round Table. Galahad had somehow broken his nose sometime in the past hour, I noticed absentmindedly, and I had a keen suspicion that Tristan had had something to do with it. The bruising that was beginning to circle his eyes gave him a strange appearance that in other circumstances would have amused me.

For the first time, I noted the new empty places - Johf and Beucan - and felt their deaths like a blow. Arthur had just begun to speak and so I had a moment to recover my composure, such as it was, but the two new missing pieces of my heart were unrecoverable.

"As you've all noticed, we have been granted the use of three squads – sixty new men – led by Commander Aulus Hirtius Galeo. The other two commanders are to be put to use among the surrounding forts, though they will remain primarily under the jurisdiction of Badon Hill." And thus, naturally, under Arthur's command. They would be welcome, I was sure, but no doubt it would take some time for them to… _accommodate_ themselves to the unique system of governance along the Wall." There were some chuckles; Arthur's strange and dangerously democratic policies were well known and widely mistrusted by those who felt the lash to be more persuasive than the kind word.

Arthur turned his earnest gaze on me. "Well done, Isolde. Your efforts will go a long way toward keeping the peace on the border. I am sorry it had to be you I sent, and I am sorry for what you suffered." Tristan had told him earlier what had happened, though he left out the details.

The other men straightened, aware that the story was about to be told at last. I only prayed that they would not do anything rash once they knew, though I knew it was an idle hope.

I looked around at each of them. "First, before I start… you must swear you won't interrupt me. I don't know if I could finish, and once this story is told I will never tell it again." With that, I began.

"I…" My voice broke and I took a big gulp of strong wine. It lit a small fire in my belly that encouraged me to go on. "I met up with Bren – Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus – upon my arrival in Gaul. I fell in with them quickly, and they accepted me at face value, for the most part, escorting me to the city of Rome, and a gods-cursed foul place it is, too, but extraordinary, too, in its way…"

My storytelling was a bit rusty, but I was once considered a fair hand at it and soon found the rhythm – a comforting familiarity. When I came to the part where I had started taking my revenge, however, my eyes dropped to the tabletop and fixed there, watching my finger doggedly trace the rays of Khors' face that were etched into the wood.

Flatly, I told them how I had sent Farah to wait for me outside the city while I laid low for several days, so that the Romans would believe I had left and the crime I was about to commit would not be connected with my departure. I told them how I scaled the walls of Marcus' villa to complete my vengeance, and related my capture and subsequent torture as vaguely as I could, trying to distance myself from the telling. There were several indrawn breaths and muttered curses, but they did not, thankfully, interrupt. I finished with Tristan's arrival and Marcus' death at my hands, which was as far as I could remember.

Something warm splashed on my hand, and I touched my fingers to my cheek as if it belonged to a stranger. With surprise I noticed that several more drops dotted the wooden tabletop – I had been crying for some time. My left hand was crushed in both of Tristan's. I lifted my eyes to his bracing gaze before finally forcing myself to look at our comrades. Most had curled their fingers tightly around the edge of the table or the arms of their chair, fingernails digging into the smooth wood. Some had clenched their jaws so tight I could almost hear them creaking, but all had murder in their eyes.

I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable explosion, and explode they did. The shouting and cursing pushed my already high-strung nerves further still. Ru drew his massive longsword from its sheath and stormed toward the big double doors with blood on his mind. I believe he was thoroughly intending to rampage through all of Britain until every Roman was dead.

I shoved my chair back and stood.

"Quiet!" The shriek bore little resemblance to my voice, but they stilled and all eyes returned to me.

I looked pointedly at Ru's sword. "What the bloody hell do you mean to do with that?"

He glanced down at the weapon as though shocked he was holding it.

"What do any of you mean to do? Can you expel the Romans from Britain? No! Nor can you avenge my honor or punish the perpetrator, for I already finished the bastard that wronged me."

"My beloved brothers, hear me. If you love me, do not hold a grudge. I told you this because we must have truth between us, but if you pursue retribution then you betray my trust and that of Arthur, to whom you have pledged yourselves." They muttered rebelliously but a look at my strained face seemed to convince them to keep their peace.

Tristan squeezed my hand as a request to take over from there, and recounted his own story in his naturally concise, abrupt way. He had met up with Cerethreus, who, over the protests of many of his people, had allowed Tristan to have his say.

Luckily, Cerethreus was a fair man, and sensible. He'd seen the advantages of Tristan's proposal to accompany him in exchange for what intelligence the scout could glean. Of course, when they met up with Farah their plan had changed, and Cerethreus and his people agreed to help liberate me in exchange for most of the bribe money Arthur had given to Tristan.

Once that task had been accomplished, we had invited Cerethreus to join us, and he put it to his group – made up of twenty-one warriors, thirteen women, twelve boys and girls who had not yet reached adulthood, and eight young children. Their oldest members were only just reaching middle age, for the elderly simply could not manage the rough manner of living they necessarily put up with.

Tristan sketched our journey home and stopped, having completed his tale. Arthur dismissed us and, emotionally spent, I turned and walked away, Tristan pacing quietly at my side.

I knew I would not sleep easy that night.

* * *

It took some effort to keep my head high over the next few days, what with the outflow of sympathy from all sides. I was a proud woman; I did not need pity, nor did I welcome it.

Tristan and Galahad refused to speak to each other, though Galahad had looked somewhat shamefaced when he came to see me. Neither would tell me what had passed between them after they ran out of my room, and it didn't look like something that might easily be fixed, considering their stubborn natures. For the time being, they made certain never to be in the same room if they could help it, and that seemed to be the most that could be asked of them.

Most of the men made some excuse to visit me, whatever I was doing, whether it was to bring an apple to their horse when I was in the stables or to walk with me to the blacksmith's workshop when I went to have my weapons sharpened. Despite my embarrassment at this highly irregular sentimentality from my lads, I realized that their obvious care and concern did indeed help to make me comfortable in their presence again, to the point where after two weeks, I would no longer flinch when the others became to boisterous or someone came upon me unawares. While the nightmares continued, it was no longer every night and I resumed some semblance of peace.

My fourth day back, I rose early, reluctantly leaving Tristan alone in my bed, and dressed in the growing light of dawn. After a long workout – made longer by my rusty skills – and a quick splash in the horse trough to rid myself of dirt and sweat, I felt more myself than I had in ages.

Wiping my dripping face on my sleeve, I rounded the corner and almost collided with Commander Galeo. Not missing a beat, he clasped my arm and greeted me warmly.

I had intended to return to my room, but quickly reevaluated my plans for the day and invited him to join me. He fell into step beside me and for a while we walked in silence as I headed for the main gate. The past three days had been quiet for everyone, and I had not yet spoken with Galeo nor met his men.

"Bren still extols your qualities at every opportunity, you know," Galeo said suddenly. I hid my surprise at the unexpected topic of conversation. I recalled that he had always been a somewhat forthright, good-humored young man with a dry wit and an unshakable disposition.

My lips quirked. "Does he? And did he send you to protect me or to keep me out of trouble?" Knowing Bren, it was both. I thought sadly of the night when he'd told me of his feelings. He'd accepted with fair grace that I didn't feel the same, but that didn't stop him from worrying like a mother hen.

Galeo acceded with a dip of his head and smiled ruefully. "Some of both, no doubt. Bren pulled some strings and when His Imperial Highness gave the order, it was me he sent a-marching. I don't mind, though," he assured me. We climbed the stairs to the top of the walls, above the gate. The two men on duty came to attention as we approached.

Galeo continued, "I always did want to see more of the world. It's why I joined the army in the first place, though I never traveled far from Rome until now."

The misty green panorama of Britain spread out before us, the Wall reaching as far as the eye could follow. It was an impressive sight, and one I had always enjoyed.

Galeo looked around himself with avid interest. "This certainly is a strange country," he noted, "but beautiful, too, in its own way." He inspected the Northern tree line, little more than a fuzzy emerald barrier from this side of the fort, and his expression took on a look of interest. "I have heard little of the natives that plague your fort."

The prompt was expected, but I hesitated. What could one really say about our enemies?

"They are called woads," I began, "Named so for the blue paint they use to decorate their bodies. The Romans call them savages, but I have seen them at close range and while their tactics are primitive, they are effective and their culture is advanced. They are unskilled at metalworking, and so their modern weapons are obtained through scavenging and stealing as they may.

When you come up against them in battle, as indeed you soon will, _do not_ underestimate them. They are a sly, intelligent people and are formidable archers to a man. Unlike the Romans, they commit fully to battle. Every member of their community dedicates themselves to the defense of their people, whether they be warrior, craftsman, mother, or child, or even Merlin himself." I shivered at the thought of the fey leader of the woads, whose uncanny ability to predict our reactions and overcome insurmountable obstacles had earned him the reputation of a dark magician.

Galeo tried to suppress a vague look of disbelief. "You don't really believe he is a conjurer, do you?"

I faced him a little more directly. "Once you've gone to battle with his people, you'll see that it is not so easy to dismiss. They can melt into the woods in an instant. Tristan and I were trained by the best woodsman in all of Britain, aside from the woads, and we know the ways of the forest to our bones. Yet what the woads can do is beyond us, and that is south of the Wall, in our own territory."

"South of the Wall?" He exclaimed in surprise. "You mean you don't follow them north? Could you – we – not flush them out and rid Britain of the threat once and for all?"

I glanced at him sharply, but with a certain amusement. "You are a good man and a good soldier, Galeo, but you are still very Roman." I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Not to worry – we'll have you cured of that in no time. In answer to your question, we have never gone north of the wall. We never _will_ go north of the wall. To do so is not only foolish and arrogant, it is suicidal. The Romans tried to go north before, many years ago."

He waited for me to continue, but I said nothing. "And? What did they find?"

I chuckled grimly. "When they return, I will let you know."

* * *

We walked all the way around the wall, me pointing out strategic strengths and weaknesses of the fort and its surrounding territory. When I had been in Rome, I had been known as Arthur's second-in-command, but it was really little more than a title temporarily bestowed upon me, to give me more clout with the Romans.

I had found, however, that I rather enjoyed the process of scouting out the necessary decisions that must be made and making them, and more – that I had a head for such things. I had performed in a similar capacity when I began training the Badon Hill militia. While Bren was Arthur's true second, I had always held a leadership position in the fort and, to a lesser extent, outside of it – which is why Arthur had assigned me to show the new arrivals around.

During my absence, the townsfolk had finally exhausted the last bit of space within the fortress walls, and the town itself now extended more sparsely beyond them. Though it was still early, I could hear the constant pattering of distant hammers where Cerethreus' people already labored to build their homes. Arthur had welcomed them warmly and allotted them a good chunk of land on which to settle. They worked diligently while, beyond the construction, some of the warriors conducted their own morning practice.

By early afternoon I had taken Galeo through the entire fort, with a detailed explanation of every aspect – military, political, and cultural – of our unique lifestyle. We rounded the corner of the tavern and found the practice courts full of the new Roman reinforcements and, beyond them, my group of militia, now grown quite large.

"Awright, ladies, move yer arses! Block, block, _lunge_! Get yer damn arm up, Nero, ye great eejit. D'ye want to be spitted like a hog? Bloody sodding pansies, the lot o' you!"

I could feel my face split in a grin. Two years before I left for Rome, Quin had left Hadrian's Wall to attend to unspecified "business" in Hispania. Now, hearing his gruff voice cursing the clumsiness of the soldiers, their slow reflexes, insulting their mothers and forebears, I realized I had missed the old bastard. He'd been tough on us, to be sure, but behind that façade was a determination to save as many of us as he could, and we had all realized that, sooner or later.

The grizzled veteran and retired training master caught sight of me and my Roman companion, standing nearby, and after a long moment he nodded to me.

"It's glad I am you're back safe, lass," he said quietly. And though I've never been one given to overly emotional displays of affection, I went to him and hugged him hard. I could tell I had surprised him. It was a moment before he returned the embrace, and I let him go and laughed through the tears that threatened.

"Are ye tryin' to destroy my reputation entirely?" he rumbled, frowning. The Romans stared, though I didn't know if it was because they didn't know what to make of me or because of Quin's uncharacteristic kindness. "An' din't I teach you better than to take on near half a century on your own, ye little fool? What kind of featherbrained assault plan was that?"

I didn't mind his criticism; I understood him, the way he thought, and knew his apparent censure was motivated by a reluctant fondness for those he trained. If a person truly disappointed him, however, he would let them know in no uncertain terms. I was, however, surprised he knew of my attack on Marcus' estate.

He saw the thoughts flash across my face and answered my unspoken question. "Lord Artorius told me," he said.

Quin's head swiveled to survey his motionless troops with a baleful eye. "DID I SAY YOU COULD STOP?" he barked, "Keep at it, girlies, ye'll get this drill learned or die trying!"

"He _never_ says stop," one man, a young fellow with a curly blond mop of hair and bright blue eyes, remarked wearily as he jumped back to avoid being smacked on the knuckles by his opponent's staff. Quin, his hearing as sharp as ever, came to stand in front of the complainer. I grinned inwardly, remembering a similar occasion where I had been in his shoes. It hadn't been particularly pleasant, as I recalled.

"_Miles_ Calidus," he said, almost gently, "Do you _want_ it to stop?"

The legionnaire looked about uncertainly. "No, sir," he hedged, sounding none too sure. Quin stared narrowly at him for a moment. "Isolde!" he summoned. Startled, I came to stand next to him.

"Sir?" I tried to keep the puzzlement out of my voice. The soldiers, only a few of whom had served under Bren and therefore knew who I was, looked on curiously.

"Lady Knight Isolde, inform this soldier when it will end." A single twitch of the corner of his mouth told me that Quin was thinking of the same episode I was, and I knew exactly what he wanted me to say. The blue-eyed man, who had puffed up like a peacock when Quin called me over, looked bewildered at my title.

"It ends when we're dead, _sir_!" I responded loudly, but in an undertone I added, "Or you are." Quin caught this and made a sound that, coming from any other man, would have been deemed a laugh.

"Carry on, Lady Isolde," he instructed, to cover his lapse in discipline. I saluted him with only a trace of pert impudence, turned about smartly, and clicked my heels before rejoining Galeo.

* * *

The militia, training nearby, had watched the scene with growing amusement. No doubt they were used to Quintus' habit of dressing down his trainees, and found the sight of his tactics working beautifully on even experienced soldiers to be downright tickling.

Their own leader was no slouch, however. "Eyes _front_," Evan shouted. "Welcome back, _Dux_," he murmured to me, and touched my shoulder. I smiled at the old nickname. Brangaine, one of my first pupils and my closest female friend, came toward me with watery eyes and we embraced briefly.

She stepped back with her hands on my shoulders and looked at me.

"You're too thin," she said, and the laughter bubbled up once again. Tall and slim herself, she had no room to talk. She tossed her braid of long, dark hair – legacy of her British parentage – over her shoulder and gave me a big, unrestrained smile, looping her arm in mine.

"I could not believe it when they told us you had gone to Rome. Was it very grand? I have heard that the Romans have buildings that near scrape the sky and great amphitheaters where men once fought to the death, for the people's entertainment. Are they so barbaric?"

Her enthusiasm made me laugh again. "They did have such games," I told her, "And impossibly great buildings all of stone with statues the very spit of a real man. Many are rich beyond all imagining. They are also greedy, and cruel, and yes, barbaric, too, although some are good men, worthy of interest. And their city produces the most gods-cursed stench," I said, wrinkling my nose in remembrance, which amused her greatly.

She led me to a bench on the sidelines to watch the proceedings. A small young woman with dark hair and pretty eyes was sparring furiously with a villager I didn't know. She disarmed him and bowed, signaling the end of the match, then stepped closer to him in an intimate way that made me angle a knowing look at them.

"Neve!" Brangaine called, "Look who's back!" Seventeen-year-old Nineve, who had changed drastically in the four and a half years since I had begun training her along with Brangaine and Latie, had all the grace and natural curves of a lady born. I sighed with envy, knowing my whiplash limbs would never stand up to her innate femininity. Guessing what prompted the sigh, Brangaine chuckled.

Neve smiled beatifically and took my hands in greeting. "Isolde, I'm so glad you have come back safely. We've missed you."

"And I you," I replied gladly. "It seems you have been keeping up with your training. Your form has never looked better."

I felt a prick in my ribs. "Good enough to get past you," she giggled with impish delight.

I grinned – something I'd been doing a lot of that day, I noted. "Not quite," I slyly glanced down at my own wrist knife, poised in a reverse grip at her waist.

"Pox," she cursed mildly. "I really thought I had you that time." I recalled the many times she had tried to best me with her many wicked little knives in the years when I was training her. She had not managed yet, but I thought she might succeed one day, perhaps not too far in the future.

"Where are the others? Loc, Latie, Eryk, and Ceallach?" Their faces fell, and I braced myself for bad news.

"Ceallach is gone," Brangaine told me. "She just… walked off into the forest one day, with her sword and her good Sarmatian bow and her knives. No one really knows where she went, but we think she might have gone north."

North. To the land of woads and cold and death. I tried not to think of my star pupil lying dead somewhere in the woods, never to swing a blade or draw her bow again. I'd _made _her that bow. Instead I tried to imagine her at peace with herself, having spilled enough blood to fulfill her vow, and able, now, to begin anew. I knew it was unlikely, but it was better than thinking the worst.

"The others?" I didn't know if I wanted to hear.

"Everyone else is fine," Neve assured me. "Latie is handfast with Loc, and Eryk married Myrna's daughter, who is already expecting their first child. He still comes to practice, some mornings, but he has an apprenticeship at the blacksmith's now, so he doesn't always have time."

"It seems I've missed a lot while I've been gone," said I.

"That you did," Neve responded archly. "Now don't do it again!" The three of us laughed together, and I realized that I had missed more than death or marriage; I had missed the comfort of having about me a circle of friends who cared.

* * *

"Lady Isolde!" I heard someone call me as I was entering the courtyard outside our barracks. "Isolde!"

I turned and saw the soldier Calidus jogging to catch up with me. He seemed to have recovered from the barrage of abuse Quin had heaped on him. He approached with a bit of a swagger and I pegged him immediately as an arrogant one. He was good-looking, and he knew it. Luckily, I thought, having lived with forty men for six years, I had some experience in taking down the more bigheaded members of the breed.

Tilting my chin up, I remarked in a distant tone, "What is it, _Miles_ Calidus?"

Having successfully caught my attention, I could almost see him giving himself a pat on the back. "My lady," he bowed lavishly, and I realized he must be one of the Roman elite, perhaps a third or fourth son. "Or should I say, Lady Knight Isolde, a name as beautiful as its owner." Khors, he was worse than Bors when he was happy.

It was clear he thought my title to be an honorary one, or at best considered it 'endearing'. I fought the urge to thoroughly disabuse him of this notion, though it was a battle closely won. There was something of the overeager puppy in him that I found amusing, if also annoying.

"Might I escort you to dinner tonight?" Before I realized his intention, he caught my hand in a cool grip and raised it to his lips, leaving them there overlong. Deliberately squashing the flicker of remembered panic his touch elicited, I extricated the offended appendage as politely as I could and thought that he obviously hadn't picked up on the way of things around here – we ate on one side of the tavern, the Romans on the other, mingling only to take each others' money in a game of dice or knife-throwing.

"I have plans," I said quickly, although I didn't, really. When he showed no signs of backing off, I had to improvise. "I owe Gawain a meal and a round of ale tonight, and I promised to show him some knife-fighting tricks I picked up in Rome." Well, the second part was true, at least.

"That big blond one? The Sarmatian?" I could swear his lip curled, and felt myself growing hot under the collar. Had this idiot not noticed that I was Sarmatian as well?

"Yes," I gritted shortly. "If you'll excuse me, I must needs exercise my horse." And I strode off, leaving him standing alone in the courtyard.

* * *

Calidus smiled in a self-satisfied way. He knew the Sarmatian woman was acting coolly toward him, and perhaps it hadn't been the wisest move to comment on the blond man, but he had confidence in his prowess at wooing the opposite sex, even those who believed themselves impervious.

Besides, he consoled himself further, what woman would intentionally surround herself with men if she was not trying to secure a husband, or at least a lover, who could support her? Many men would consider themselves fortunate to have a leman with such exotic features.

Now, he wasn't a cruel man, or even a stupid one – only ignorant, with some heavily biased, preconceived ideas about the provincial peoples. Unfortunately for him, his persistence – which had always served him well in the past – was about to dig him into a hole he could not easily escape.

With no warning, a dark figure slid smoothly into view just in front of him. Calidus swore in surprise.

"You ought to keep a sharper eye out, Roman," Tristan warned silkily. If Calidus had known the Sarmatian better, he would have picked up on the hazardous note in the scout's voice.

He continued, "You should not pursue that which does not belong to you."

"What business is it of yours," Calidus asked with some degree of disdain. The scout flicked his fingers in a gesture of unconcern, leaning in close.

"It is my business," the dark man said, "When it is _my_ woman you are courting. You flirt with danger, my overconfident friend."

Recovering from his initial surprise, Calidus drew himself up mockingly. "Perhaps it is you who should be watchful, Sarmatian, or you might find your treasure has slipped away… or sought refuge in another's arms."

The Roman had no idea how close he came to dying right there, but with an indrawn breath, Tristan relaxed his grip on his blade and stepped up to the younger man.

"I'm watching," was all he said, and then he was gone.

* * *

Hello again, folks!

First of all, no doubt you've noticed that I have a new name. The other one just wasn't doing it for me, but I like this one, which is in Scots-Gaelic.

Also, sorry this chapter is so short – I just wanted to get it done, especially because the next month is going to be busy, but at least I passed 100,000 words, HOORAY!!! That makes me so proud of myself. I might end up adding on to this chapter to make it longer, so keep an eye out!

Hmmm… so we have a healing Isolde, some tension between Tristan and Galahad that is basically going to remain until the film, particularly the tavern scene in which Tristan needles Galahad, who explodes at him, etc. We have Quin back (yaaay!!!) and now we have a new character, Galeo, and some possible conflict between Calidus and Tristan, if the former doesn't stop pursuing a woman who doesn't want him, the twit. Anyway, I think that's about it. Sorry about all the swearing, but hey, if you can't take it in stride and accept that this is how they spoke and behaved, you probably shouldn't be reading about torture, near-rape, and beheadings and such. :D

As for the term _Miles_, it is Latin for soldier. I do not know if this was how the legionaries would be directly addressed, but in ancient Rome legionary soldiers were called _miles legionaries_, so I borrowed the term for my own purposes. The knights would have been part of the _auxilia_, made up of noncitizens (mostly from the provinces) and including light-armed infantry, slingers, archers, and cavalry. So there's a bit of military history for all my fellow history buffs.

Finally, I realize this was mostly a filler chapter (again) but don't worry, in another two chapters or so something big should be happening. Again, I might update this chapter so that it includes Isolde's first patrol after her return. Maybe. We'll see. I know this is a long note, but it's over now. Enjoy!

Ta,

Ribhinn

(That's pronounced "Rrrih-vin"… roll the R like a certain red-haired Scot who shall remain nameless… but it starts with 'J', and ends with '–amie') ;) Gotta love Outlander.


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